


If You Loved Me

by frau_kali, spaceAltie



Category: X-Men: Days of Future Past (2014) - Fandom, X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Arguing, BAMF Raven, Bittersweet Ending, Canon Disabled Character, Canon-Typical Violence, Cerebro, Chess, Depression, Drug Use, Flashbacks, Guilt, M/M, Mansion Fic, Mild Sexual Content, Mutant Politics, Mutant Powers, Nightmares, POV Alternating, Poor Charles, Telepathy, Vietnam War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-02
Updated: 2015-02-02
Packaged: 2018-03-09 15:17:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 32,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3254516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frau_kali/pseuds/frau_kali, https://archiveofourown.org/users/spaceAltie/pseuds/spaceAltie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Canon divergent AU set before DoFP. Having escaped from prison, Erik returns to the mansion to find Charles at his lowest point, and is confronted with the guilt of what his actions in Cuba did to his friend, and the contempt he feels at Charles for giving up as much as he has.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

>   
>  [Art masterpost is here.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3279080)
> 
> **Trigger warnings for needles, drug use, depression, Holocaust and Vietnam War references in this fic.**
> 
> Beta'd by the awesome [eriklehnsherrsangel](http://archiveofourown.org/users/eriklehnsherrsangel).
> 
> So, here we are! This is my very first time doing a Reverse Bang and, after Secret Mutant 2014, only the second fic challenge I've partaken in. The X-Men (or perhaps the Cherik) fandom has pulled me in, clearly! Anyway, my artist is the wonderful spaceAltie and I'd like to thank her for all her support and for putting up with my occasional delays :) Also thanks to eriklehnsherrsangel's for being my beta! And to [afrocurl](http://archiveofourown.org/users/afrocurl) for running this whole challenge and being so great with it, including being patient with me when I was late.
> 
> This may be the longest fic I've ever written, real life almsot got in the way more than once and there were a couple of occasions where I thought I wouldn't finish it, but now that it's all finished and posted, I have to say I'm pretty proud of it. I hope everyone enjoys it, and I hope I got all or mostly everything right!
> 
> The title is a reference to Kodaline's song, [All I Want](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n6BwAWiHcSg). It is so very Cherik :)  
> 

November, 1972

The estate in Westchester had, for ten years now, been a regular fixture in every happy (and some bad) dreams Erik had had since Cuba. He'd spent one week there, just one, but the memories he and Charles had made in that time (and, indeed, during those months crisscrossing America before that) were still some of the happiest he'd ever had. He realized much later that that house, much as he'd initially derided it (and what he thought was Charles' privileged upbringing) was the first home he'd had since before the camps.

He never wanted to find it in _this_ state.

The house looked empty, the grounds abandoned and bereft of the care he knew they'd gotten in the years before Charles had brought him and the others here in 1962. There were no lights, no people that he could see. He saw that the gate was closed, but floating over it was a simple task, so he never bothered to land and inspect it further. He could feel its metal, though, old and rusted.

He tried not to let the fear bubbling up in the pit of his stomach become full on panic as he drew closer to the quiet, almost ghostly mansion. Was Charles still alive? Was he even here? The thought that his old friend might be dead, that all the things Erik wanted to tell him would go unsaid, he couldn't bare that. It had been almost ten years since he'd spoken to Charles, and that was way, way too long.

He thought he'd arrive to find a house with lights on in all the windows, maybe children out playing on the terrace despite the sun having gone down, perhaps even some advanced security system Hank had designed to warn of an attack. Erik had not forgotten the night when Charles, tangled up in the sheets against him, had smiled fondly and outlined his vision for a school for “gifted youngsters,” a place where mutants could find sanctuary from persecution. It was, Erik thought, a noble goal. For it to have not been realized, something terrible must've happened.

No. No, he would not accept the possibility that Charles was dead, or Alex or even Hank. He knew, sadly, about Sean, having read his name on a list of dead American soldiers in Vietnam published in a newspaper before his jailers had revoked his newspaper privileges after one of his escape attempts. But the others... He'd lost too many already.

Floating around to the back of the house, Erik's heart skipped a beat when he saw, on the second floor, a singular light on, faint but there. It wasn't Charles' room, that was located down the hall, but he knew it was one of the bedrooms that had gone unoccupied the last time he was here. He moved toward it, the window coming unlatched and open with a wave of his hand.

By now, if not for the helmet that kept his mind locked away, Erik was sure he would've felt Charles' against his mind. He held back the temptation to the take the helmet off, to see if that would happen, all while telling himself not to think about how much he'd missed that lovely, intimate brush of Charles' mind against his.

The room he found himself in seemed smaller than many of the others, but that was only because it was full of clutter. There were empty bottles of scotch everywhere, books and papers piled on top of tables, an unmade bed, a picture of Raven in her blonde “normal” form and--

On the floor, not so terribly far from the window, was a bare chested figure, lying face down in something resembling a fetal position. Familiar, dark hair obscured any glimpse Erik hoped to catch of the man's face, and he could only dare to hope that this wasn't who he thought.

He rushed forward, barely remembering to mentally command the window to close, to keep out the cold air. In an instant he was on his knees before the man, gingerly touching his shoulder, pushing him over enough so that unkempt hair fell back and Erik looked into a face he'd not seen in years.

“Charles?” He whispered, giving him a gentle shake. Charles did not look the same as Erik remembered him; the beard that framed his mouth was new, and his hair had grown out. His eyes were closed, his lips parted, but he did not look peaceful the way he had, on all those mornings, when Erik woke beside him. When Charles didn't respond, Erik brought up a hand and checked his pulse, relief flooding him as he felt the steady _thud, thud_ of Charles' heartbeat under his fingertips.

“ _Charles_ ”? Erik spoke again, a bit louder, pulling Charles up into his arms, one gloved hand falling to his cheek.

This time Charles stirred, blue eyes opening, growing wide as they met Erik's worried gaze. Charles smiled then, a shaky, sad expression nowhere close to the bright, joyful smiles Erik remembered. A stab of guilt went through him, then, much the same as the day his trial ended, when he saw Charles for the first time in months, and discovered how his actions had left his old friend broken and confined to a wheelchair. Charles had not spoken to him, or projected thoughts at him, but the disappointed, sad look in his face had told Erik everything he needed to know about how Charles felt.

And then he'd had the next ten years, alone in his cell, to let that sink in, the question of just what he could've done differently to keep Charles from that becoming his constant companion, and the pain of knowing there was nothing he could do making it even worse.

“Erik, you're back,” Charles spoke, his words a bit slurred, “must be dreaming.” His head lolled sideways a bit, his right leg pushing against the floor as he attempted to sit up. Erik caught the movement, and then realized Charles' wheelchair was nowhere in sight.

His eyes fell to the empty needle and the long, leather strip on the floor between himself and the other man. He looked at the telepath again. “Charles, what happened to you?” Had he turned to drugs to dull his pain? Had he given up on all the dreams he'd spoken so hopefully of all those years ago? Had he-- No, Erik didn't want to _consider_ that Charles might turn his back on mutantkind when they needed someone to protect them.

Charles brought a trembling hand up to Erik's face, fingers touching the cold steel of the helmet. “Still wearing that awful thing, I see.” Charles laughed then, a sad, bitter sound. “Why come back, if you still don't trust me? You always did.. mm, in my other dreams. Always threw that bloody thing away.”

Erik set down the needle and lifted Charles into his arms, feeling both his legs move against his arm, and noticing Charles pushing both his bare feet together, probably for warmth. “You're not dreaming,” he tells him, moving carefully to the bed and laying Charles down, pulling the covers up over him. Charles barely moved at all, sinking back into the pillows, both hands pulling the sheets up. He looked drunk, Erik thought, but there was something more to it than that, he was sure. Something in that needle… Perhaps something related to how Charles seemed to have regained the use of his legs, at least somewhat.

Walking back, he leaned down and picked it up. There were just the barest traces of an amber liquid inside it. “What is this?”

Before Charles could say anything, the door swung open, and Erik barely made out the blue figure hurtling toward him before he slammed into one of Charles' tables, sending the papers flying, the glass bottles shattering. A growl brought Erik's, momentarily scattered, attention right back to the newcomer, to Hank McCoy, right before he was grabbed and thrown out into the hall. In the seconds before he hit the floor, one of Charles' metal lamps leapt from its place and nearly smashed into the back of Hank's head. It would have, too, if Erik could see what he was doing.

Instead, he was left reaching out for any metal he could use as a weapon, before Hank was on him again, ripping off the helmet. The lamp from Charles' room jumped into the air again, flying toward Hank, when two blue hands once more slammed Erik against the wall, his head smashing into the wood behind him. He didn't know if the lamp hit its target or not, because the world turned to black a second later.

Charles wasn't sure how long it took before he felt sober again... or rather, as close to sober as he could get at the moment. He'd been drinking before he injected the most recent dose of the serum, and that had only made everything all the more incoherent. Hank had told him not to do that, but he'd long since stopped caring. In fact, he probably would've rolled over and fallen asleep for the night, were it not for who had tucked him into bed earlier.

_”You're not dreaming.”_

Erik was not a dream, he'd _really come back_. That was enough to have Charles scrambling out of bed on shaky legs—the serum was still kicking in, though thankfully it had kept his telepathy dulled enough that he didn't hear any voices—and out into the hall where he'd heard the commotion earlier, or thought he heard it. He hadn't really been awake or cognizant enough to know.

The shattered lamp he found on the floor confirmed it, though. And Hank, who was carrying the caped, red-clad unconscious form of Erik Lehnsherr down the hall, slung over his shoulder. The helmet, the one that had caused so much grief, lay on the floor still, and Charles leaned down to pick it up. The metal felt cool in his hand. Erik wasn't going to be needing it anymore; he'd wanted Charles out of his head, and that was how it was going to be from now on.

“Hank!” Charles called, trailing after him, stumbling just a little. The serum was quick to kick in, and Charles still relished feeling his feet against the floor, or the ground outside, despite being used to it by now.

Hank glanced back at him. “I'm going to put him in one of the spare rooms, and clear out all the metal.” Charles knew there was no point in mentioning that didn't matter; Erik was skilled, he could call metal from anywhere else to free himself. There wasn't anything for it, though; they didn't have anywhere to put him. Truth be told, Charles had thought Erik wouldn't ever come back, or that he'd never see him again, except perhaps to stop him from executing some other insane plan against humanity that was just going to make everything worse.

Erik and his Brotherhood (as they'd called themselves) had actually not been particularly loud before the man had killed JFK. Sometimes the papers made mentions of break-ins at laboratories (usually Trask Industries' labs), but there was never any mention of mutants. Charles only suspected that was what it was because he'd used Cerebro to keep tabs on certain people in the CIA, namely to ensure they weren't any closer to finding out about him or his school.

He followed Hank to one of the rooms at the end of the hall, where he watched the other man deposit Erik on the bed.

“Thank you, Hank... I think that's enough. Would you mind checking the grounds to see if he came alone?” Charles spoke softly.

“But I haven't--” Hank gestured around the room as Charles moved to the bedside table and flicked on the lamp there.

“I think if he wanted to harm me, he would've done it before you arrived.” He had been quite useless then, after all. And Erik had no idea Charles didn't have his powers. So he handed the helmet to Hank, who padded toward the door, before he turned back, looking concerned.

“Are you-- You haven't seen him since his trial, or talked to him since Cuba. Are you sure you want to be here when he wakes up?”

Charles looked down into Erik's unconscious face, a wave of bitter nostalgia washing over him. The man looked much the same as the last time he’d seen him, with his perfectly chiseled jaw and cold features that Charles had once warmed to, or so he'd thought.

“Yes, I'm fine,” he spoke softly.

Hank still hesitated, and Charles couldn’t blame him for it. He was sure his friend (the only one who was still here) probably hated Erik a great deal, considering he now knew about what had once been between him and Charles. Nonetheless, Charles looked at him, and frowned. “I promise, it's going to be alright. And I'd like to speak to him alone, when he wakes up.”

With just the barest bit more of hesitation, Hank turned and left the room, leaving Charles alone with the unconscious form, the man he'd not seen in years, the man who he'd once shared so much, who he once thought loved him, and who he once loved in return.

Only, he knew now that it had all been a lie, or a trick. Erik couldn't have ever loved him, he'd taken advantage of Charles' kindness, used him to learn what he needed so he could finally complete his vendetta, and perhaps enjoyed the sex along the way. If Erik had really, truly loved him, he'd never have abandoned him, bleeding and broken, on that beach with no way out. He'd have sent Azazel back to collect all of them, to get Charles to a hospital, but he hadn't. At first, Charles merely thought it was because of his rejection of Erik's ways, Erik's ideals, but over time he accepted the truth of it: Erik was the monster he always claimed to be, and the man never loved him.

He still had nightmares about it sometimes, about the journey off the beach and the trek back to civilization. There'd been no one to call, no help to ask for, not when orders had come to the fleets to murder everyone on the beach. All through that journey, when there was a real chance Charles might have died, the pain of Erik's betrayal had been like a knife stuck through his heart. To think that he'd loved the man, that he'd thought nothing would ever separate them. He'd been such a _fool_. Erik and his extremism had cost the telepath his legs, and then nearly his life, and Raven, too, who'd been wrapped around Erik's finger enough to want to leave her brother, even when he'd been so badly hurt.

Erik groaned, his brows knitting together before his eyes opened, slowly, and Charles, now fully aware and sober (more or less), found himself looking into a pair of eyes he'd not seen in years, certainly not from this angle. That thought alone, to think of what they might've had, if Erik wasn't Erik, it made Charles' fists clench.

“Charles,” Erik's voice was soft, pained from the bump he probably had on his head. He sat up immediately, then seemed to think better of it, as he put a hand to the back of his head, swaying slightly but still remaining upright. His head was probably spinning a bit, and Charles mentally kicked himself for worrying that his former friend might have a concussion.

Erik's hands settled on the bed, and Charles recognized the subtle way his features changed when realization came over him. Misery and anger twisted in his gut at how well he knew this man, how despite everything, he hadn't anticipated Erik's betrayal.

“My helmet--” Erik didn't get to finish, because Charles took three steps forward, closing the distance enough to punch the other man squarely on the cheek. Potential concussion be damned, just being in the same room as Erik Lehnsherr filled Charles with ten years worth of rage.

Erik lurched sideways onto the bed, and Charles' desire to hit him again was deflated by the sudden pain that shot through his hand. He gripped his fist, shaking it, and then proceeded to shove Erik as he tried to sit up, an alternative to punching him again.

This went on for a moment or so, until Erik stopped moving, and Charles stepped back, shoulders slumping slightly. He didn't regret attacking the other, but it didn't provide the catharsis he wished for. He thought maybe Erik might've fought back, as he normally did, but the other man did no such thing. He just waited until Charles was done, and only then did he sit up.

“I missed you, too, old friend, and I'm glad to see you're walking,” Erik said, his lips actually curling upward in a smile, the _bastard_ , as he rubbed his cheek.

Charles ought to have hit him again. He might have, too, if his hand didn't still hurt. The metal bender acting happy to see him, calling him a _friend_...

“Why are you here, Erik?” He demanded, rage seething just under the surface of every word. “Shouldn't you be running to Europe by now?”

For a moment, Erik seemed uncertain how to answer, and finally he said: “You haven't looked?”

“Oh, so now I have permission, do I? I thought you'd revoked that the moment you put on Shaw's helmet.”

“Charles--” There was a sadness in Erik's gaze that Charles was determined not to acknowledge. It couldn't be real.

“No, Erik. Don't. I've no intention of _ever_ going into your mind again, so you shouldn't worry, or need that ugly helmet any longer. Now, why are you here?”

Erik didn't meet Charles' eyes when he said: “I-- I missed you, Charles. I wanted to see how you were, and to--”

Charles cut him off then with an abrupt, bitter laugh. Erik wanted to see how he was? Oh, that was something, wasn't it? Maybe he really did care, but the telepath doubted it, he'd seen nothing that showed it, nothing the other had done since coming here, or during those months prior to his imprisonment.

Erik stood up then, swaying only a little. And Charles' bitter amusement turned right back into rage again. He surged forward, giving Erik another shove, and this time the metal bender remained upright. “You _left me_ bleeding on a beach, without any way back to civilization! You took my sister and you just _abandoned me_!” Charles shouted, giving him another shove. “And why? Because I wouldn’t join you, because I _rejected_ you and your ideas that were going to get us all killed? You never even came back to see if I was alright, and now you tell me you _missed_ me? If that were true, if you loved--” He cut himself off, refusing to utter that accusation, to get into that, to make it true by saying it aloud to Erik instead of Hank.

Before Erik could interrupt him, Charles continued, saying things he'd wanted to for years: “And then you murdered the president, a man who probably would’ve shown us kindness and understanding! You were right. Ten years ago, you were right; you _are_ a monster.”

Erik's face had turned stony during Charles' tirade, and that expression remained firmly in place, but for a moment his eyes widened when Charles uttered the word _monster_. It was gone a second later, though, and Erik looked down at him, his mouth set in a firm line.

“What about you, Charles?” Erik spoke suddenly, his voice cold, before he reached out and grabbed the other man’s' right wrist, where his sleeve had ridden up a little from shoving Erik so much. He pushed the fabric out of the way to reveal the marks along his skin, all the places Charles had used the needle. Charles recoiled at once, ripping his hand away under Erik's judgmental gaze. “How long have you been here, how long has your school been closed? Was it ever opened, or have you just been hiding here, drinking and drugging yourself, while our brothers and sisters _died_ out there because they had no one to _protect_ them?”

Erik's voice rose, shaking a little with his rage, and the whole room trembled with it, the metal rattling, right down to the very foundations of the house. Fear shot through Charles, and for a moment he thought he shouldn't have told Hank to go, or that maybe they should've removed the metal from the room “Emma, Angel, Azazel, _Banshee_ , they're all dead, and they aren't the only ones. _You_ abandoned _them_ , Charles! Innocent mutants out there, they needed your protection, and you were too busy being miserable to help them, weren't you?”

Charles stared at him, the words like a knife to his gut, every reminder, every accusation that he'd _failed_ the others. He didn't want to hear any of this. It made him want to run, to leave, rather than hit the other again, because he knew it was true, he _knew_ , and yet _Erik_ of all people had no right to say so. Erik hadn't just abandoned him, he'd left all of them in Cuba, and they could've all died if those ships had chosen to fire on them again. And yet, Charles didn't want to argue anymore, he just felt tired, and he needed a drink.

Thankfully, he didn't need to tell Erik to stop, because the metal stopped shaking after a moment, so the house at least wasn't going to collapse.

“Get out, Erik,” Charles didn't bother trying to conceal the sadness in his voice. “You've seen how I am, what you've done to me, so leave.” He stepped aside and gestured to the door, putting some distance between him and the other man.

Erik hesitated, but then his fists clenched and he walked past other and toward the door.

“I hope they catch you before you can run far,” Charles said, glaring at Erik's back, his anger more quiet and tired now, “-so you can go back to where you _belong_.”

Erik said nothing, didn’t even look back. He raised a hand and the door opened for him before he stepped through it, leaving the telepath alone.

He really did need a drink. A whole bottle, probably.

Coming here was a mistake, one great big mistake. Erik shouldn't have bothered, he shouldn't have exposed himself to this, to... whatever Charles was now. He'd wanted to apologize, to express his regret, but why should he do that now? He still felt it, of course, he felt it all ( _You've seen how I am, what you've done to me_ ), but Charles wasn't Charles anymore. Sweet, wonderful, blue eyed, wavy haired, insufferably naive, bright, smiling _Charles_ , he wasn't the man he’d just spoken to.

No, the man upstairs-- He was pathetic, miserable, and wasn't Charles. Charles would never have failed to protect his fellow mutants, whatever his differences were with him. He'd never have locked himself up in that house and gotten drunk injecting himself with whatever was in that syringe, drowning in his own misery while other mutants were being dissected.

Charles would never have called Erik a monster, he'd never of believed that. He'd always denied it, always took Erik in his arms and kissed him and told him how wonderful he was for all the love he felt, and all the care he had for the mutants they'd found. Erik ought to have felt smug, or satisfied that Charles finally accepted the truth about him.

And yet...

He just felt... empty, hurt, sad. He shouldn't have expected to come back here and find a school full of mutants and a Charles who was much the same as Erik remembered, except perhaps angrier (and rightfully so), enough that he'd scream at him and then there'd be apologies and maybe Charles wouldn't forgive (he didn't deserve it), but it would've been something.

Instead... There was this. Charles thought he was a monster, the telepath seemed to hate him, he'd _done this_ to the other. He never thought those notions would make him feel like this, and he refused to let himself dwell on that. No, Charles had failed all of them, had just accepted what his precious humans said and believed Erik killed JFK. He should never have bothered with coming back here. He needed to go and find Mystique, not try and bring back a past he'd left behind in Cuba.

He reached the bottom of the steps, fists still balled in anger, and stopped upon seeing a figure opening the front door. It took him a moment to realize, in the low light, that it was Hank. A very non-blue, human Hank. Of course, he'd probably found a way to hide again, he'd been so obsessed with it. Maybe he'd influenced Charles somehow, or talked him out of building the school. Had he been here with Charles this _entire_ time and done _nothing_ to help him?

It took a matter of seconds for Erik to shove Hank against the door and pin him there with his forearm. “What happened to Charles?” He demanded, furious.

“You did,” Hank managed to grit out, glaring as he shoved Erik off him with a strength such a scrawny man shouldn't have possessed. “And I'm guessing he told you to leave.” 

Erik stood his ground. He'd left Charles, yes, he'd left him and the guilt of it ate away at him, but there had to be more to it than that. The man he remembered was stronger than that. “Not until you tell me. In detail.”

Hank never broke his glare, even as he seemed to consider, and then finally, he relented, perhaps thinking explaining was better than risking another fight. “You left him, you took his legs, you took Raven, you murdered Shaw while Charles was still in his head--” Erik cringed inwardly at that; he'd known that would happen, and had done it anyway. There'd been no other choice, and though he felt bad for hurting Charles (he'd promised he would always protect him), Shaw had to die before he killed them all. Nevermind that killing Shaw hadn't really made him feel any better, just as Charles had said it wouldn't, but that hadn't mattered. Peace, as he said, was never an option, he knew that he'd have a new mission once Shaw was dead.

“But he tried, he put on a brave face,” Hank continued, “tried not to show how sad he was when you or Raven never came back, never called, never even wrote. We built the school, he used Cerebro to find students, I thought he was getting better, that he was going to be alright. We had one semester, in 1969, everything was going so well, and then Vietnam got worse and mostly everyone here was drafted. It was too much for him.”

He didn't bother to hide his contempt. “Why didn't you and Charles hide them, keep them from the army?” One of the companies the Brotherhood had tangled with—Trask Industries—had been a weapons contractor, and they'd been experimenting on mutants. If they got their hands on any of the mutants who'd served in Vietnam....

“Because we're not like you, Erik. That would've started a war, they'd have found the school, and arrested all of us. It wouldn't have been worth it,” Hank seemed sad, resigned, and Erik only judged him all the more for it.

“So you just let Charles sit here for three, almost four years? The two of you, you just _hid_ here?”

“You don't have any idea what it's been like for him, do you?” Hank shot back. “You weren't here, you never came back! I've been here, Alex and Sean were here, until they were drafted. I only got to stay because of my work, and my eyesight. You don't get to judge him.”

Erik wanted to protest, but the look Hank gave him, like he wanted to smash him into the wall again, kept his mouth shut. He wanted to avoid another fight, at least until Hank had finished his explanation.

“Charles was... Losing the students broke him, he'd lost everything, the school was a failure. He had nightmares, he drank all the time, he wouldn't leave the house, or see anyone but me. He hardly ate, he'd spend a lot of time in his room, he'd talk about Raven, and then about you and what you were to him--”

Erik turned sideways, preparing for judgment. “He told you?”

“I was there, he talks a lot when he's drunk and depressed,” Hank shrugged, the reaction Erik expected never materialized. “I wanted to help him, so I created a serum to treat his spine. At first I just wanted him to get some feeling back, maybe walk with a cane, but he wanted to take more and more of it, because it--” Hank stopped, looked away, and he knew there was something more that Hank didn't want him to know.

“What? What else does it to him?” He took a step forward, worry surging through him, and if he weren't so caught up in it, he might have reflected on how easily his care for the other mutant came back, even when he was furious with him.

“Hank?” Erik said when the other said nothing. “Tell me.”

Hank glared at him, and for a moment, for the second time, he looked like he wanted to leap across the short distance between them and just attack. Erik didn't need to be a telepath to see that Hank hated him, and the feeling was entirely mutual.

“Charles lost control of his power,” Hank finally said. “His range has gotten better in the last ten years, he could hear people who were miles away. He had nightmares, he couldn't shut off the voices, he felt everyone else's pain more than anything. So I thought-- My serum helps me control my mutation, and his comes from the same formula. I just wanted to help him dull his range, and at first that's what it did. But he wanted more, he wanted a higher dosage, so it'd shut off his power comp--”

“ _You_ took Charles' power from him?” Erik took two steps forward, the metal chandelier rattling above him until he clamped down on his control. “You made him less, you made him _human_?” Erik may have not always trusted Charles with his power, might have known and feared all the ways he could've used it against him. But Charles' power had still been wonderful, still been part of what made him Charles Xavier.

No wonder Erik hadn't felt the brush of Charles' mind against him, no wonder the telepath hadn't used his powers to command Erik to leave, or force him to stay and changed him as Erik felt sure he would.

“He asked me to!” Hank nearly shouted. “I was trying to help him! And I tried to ease him back, to make him take less, but he couldn't take it. He's lost too much, Erik, and it all started because of what you did to him in Cuba. If you'd been here, who knows how different things would've gone.”

Erik recoiled at the accusation, the words deflating some of his rage and making the guilt roll through him, stronger than before. Things would've been so different if Charles had just come with him, if he'd stayed by his side like Erik wanted--

Or if Erik had just... come back here, even just sometimes, instead of refusing to let himself. Staying with Charles, much as part of him had wanted to, was never in the cards. But maybe if he hadn't abandoned him so completely.... Maybe if he'd encouraged Mystique to write to him like she'd expressed an interest in...

He really had done this to Charles, so much of it.

Hank, meanwhile, had more to say: “He blames you for Raven leaving, too, and after he realized you never really loved him--”

“What?”

“After he realized that, he just got worse. Not hearing the voices helps him a little, but he still has nightmares sometimes, and he's still depressed. You being here hasn't helped, either, so I think you should go, run away to wherever you were going to.” Hank gestured to the door again.

Erik took a step toward it, then stopped. Before this conversation, he would've walked through it without a second thought, but now... No. He couldn't. This was his fault, he'd done this to Charles. And the other believed that Erik had never loved him, even though he'd been in Erik's head, he'd shown him his feelings once, and shared his own with Erik. How could he think that was all some lie?

That wasn't as important as the rest of it, though. He'd come here wanting to apologize, and now he saw the damage he'd done. True, he could still blame Charles for doing nothing, and Hank for enabling him to continue to do nothing, for giving him that poison, but his actions had ultimately led Charles here.

Erik couldn't just _leave_ him to this fate, he wouldn't do that even if he'd not played a major role in creating it. He still loved the telepath, much as he wished he didn't, and he'd hurt him enough. If he left him here, like this, then he was just abandoning him all over again.

“Erik?” Hank prompted, interrupting Erik's contemplation.

“I'm not leaving,” Erik said. “There's a lot more metal for me to use against you if you to try make me.” To prove his point, the chandelier rattled again. There were also the sharp metal fire pokers in the room adjacent to the foyer, and a myriad of other little things.

“Why?” Hank said.

“Because I want to help him. You're right, I did this to him, and now I want to help.” And the first thing he was going to do, though he didn't tell Hank, was get Charles off that awful poison he was injecting himself with.


	2. Chapter 2

After he'd sent Erik away, Charles had another drink and went to bed. Unfortunately telling Erik to go away in the real world didn't keep him from invading Charles' dreams. And instead of the frequent nightmares about Cuba, or the journey off the beach, or Shaw's death, Charles dreamt of happy memories, or waking up nestled against the other, or silent promises they made to look after each other and other mutants, and declarations of love that were felt more often than spoken aloud.

The dreams themselves left him feeling bitter and angry at his nostalgia when he awoke. Of course, he had a solution for that, and he dragged himself out of bed around noon. That was a perfectly normal time for him to get out of bed these days. Years ago, he'd sometimes woken up this late, too, but only after going to bed well past midnight, so absorbed in his work. Now he just slept a lot, the motivation to get up and do anything having escaped him long ago. There was really no point anyway, he'd long decided he had nothing to offer the world. Every time he tried to save anyone, or do anything worthwhile, it ended in failure. Better to spare everyone the false hope, especially himself, than deal with that.

Coming down the stairs, Charles wandered through the halls toward the kitchen when he spotted Hank ahead of him, a little strange considering he ought to have left for work by now. The kitchen's double doors lay open, too, and he could hear footsteps from within, and smell the delicious, wafting aroma of fried eggs and bacon. His gaze flickered to Hank, who looked concerned, but the sounds in the kitchen drew his attention more. If Hank was out here, then that meant--

“Charles--” Hank started, but Charles held up a hand and walked past him, right to the kitchen. If he'd had his abilities, he would've known who was in the kitchen without having to enter it, and never was he more thankful to be alone in his own mind, with all the privacy it afforded him.

Especially when he found Erik Lehnsherr moving between the table and the oven, dressed in one of the turtlenecks and cream coloured slacks that he'd left here all those years ago.

Charles felt like someone had reached into his chest, grabbed him by the heart and yanked him back in time as he stood there in the doorway. How many times had he come down here in the morning, either before or after the children, to find Erik bloody Lehnsherr dressed in _those clothes_ (or something similar), making him breakfast? How many times had they greeted each other, had they debated something interesting in the paper about the up and coming Civil Rights Movement, or philosophy or history, or any number of other things?

Worse yet, how many times had he let Erik pull him against him and kiss him, ignoring his warnings that anyone could walk in and see him? They'd done other things, too, of course, at night and the mornings, in this room, things that had put Charles on his knees or over the kitchen table or counter. How many times? Far too many, every morning during the week they'd spent here in 1962. And now they all came back and hit him, playing through his memory, haunting him the way so many other of the happy memories Erik and he had made in this house together did.

“Hello, Charles,” Erik spoke to him, pulling him out of his own head, and Charles felt as though the knife the metal bender had left in his heart nearly ten years ago had just been given a good, solid _twist_. His gaze fell to the table then, as Erik set down a plate on it. Again, the smell of a classic English fry-up (his _favourite_ , Erik knew, the bastard) assaulted him, the bacon, eggs, bread, tomatoes, mushrooms, and sausages all smelled just perfect. Charles remembered how Raven used to poke fun at him for his love of old style things, his tea, and his English breakfasts and the way he wore cardigans. She'd fondly called him an 'old fart' on more than one occasion, memories that made the pit of his stomach twist painfully. And the man who'd taken her away was standing before him.

At some point, Hank had stepped into the room behind Charles, putting a hand on his shoulder in a gesture of comfort. He hardly noticed, the whole world seemingly narrowed to himself and Erik. Some things, evidently, would not ever change.

“Erik,” Charles spoke at last, the vitriol in his tone the same as the previous evening. “What are you still doing here? I told you to go.”

Erik turned back to the counter, pouring Charles a cup of tea to complete the delicious meal before him. He didn't answer until he was back at the table: “You could make me leave, old friend. If you had your powers.” He sounded much calmer than he had the previous night, when he'd thrown all those hurtful accusations in Charles' face.

Charles looked at Hank just then, glaring; the only way Erik could've known his secret was if Hank had told him. Hank frowned under his friend's angry gaze, but didn't move.

“I'm not leaving you here, Charles,” Erik said, looking at him with those same sad eyes that Charles didn't want to see, “not while you're injecting yourself with that poison, getting drunk and wallowing in your own misery. Now, why don't you eat something? Alcohol isn't breakfast.”

Charles stared at him, anger twisting in his gut, threatening to explode again as it had last night. Erik, apparently, wanted to _help_ him, in the most condescending way possible. He was too bloody late, though, far too late. “Hank, would you escort Magneto out of this house and off this property?”

Hank stepped past Charles, and Erik turned, the kitchen utensils rattling slightly behind him, a ready arsenal at his command. That was enough to give Hank pause, and enough to wonder if Erik would actually kill him, or even seriously hurt him. If they weren't in the _kitchen_ of all places, where he could use so much as a weapon, Charles wouldn't be thinking twice about this.

“Erik,” Hank spoke up now, “if you stay here, you're just going to make things worse. I told you.”

“I'm not leaving,” Erik said again, “and you both know that if you send me back out there, and they catch me, they'll probably just kill me. Or experiment on me.” His gaze focused on Charles now. “I know you don't lo--” He stopped, frowning, clearly wrestling with his words, and Charles knew exactly what he was going to say, felt quite thankful he didn't. “I know you're angry, old friend, and that you haven't--” Again, another pause, before: “But I also know you wouldn't turn another mutant away.” Charles supposed Erik was going to make some condescending remark about his being a recluse, and his abandonment of their kind. It was a good thing he didn't.

“Old friend,” Charles said, shaking his head, “don't call me that, Erik.” He walked toward the cabinet, shoving past him, and retrieved an unopened bottle of scotch. This was better than any breakfast Erik was going to provide him with, never mind that his cooking had been among the best he'd tasted, he didn't want anything from the man now.

“Hank, come with me, please,” Charles spoke softly as he headed toward the door.

Hank hesitated for one moment, then backed up toward the door, keeping his gaze on Erik.

“Charles!” Erik called out suddenly, and it was enough to make Charles stop walking. “Charles, I'm sorry.”

Oh. Oh, those words. Those two words that Charles had wished, over and over again, in the months after Cuba, that Erik would return here to say. He'd _dreamt_ of him coming back, dreamt of that apology, of Erik helping him, staying with him, building the school with him. Those possibilities, and those notions, had turned sour the longer he wished for them, making him more and more bitter.

And now? _Too bloody late, Erik_ , he thought, angrily, as he resisted the urge to round on the other man and punch him, scream at him for that. But that would accomplish nothing, so instead he chose to ignore him, to not even turn around.

He walked from the kitchen, only looking back when he was out to make sure Hank was still in tow.

“Are you sure we should just let him stay?” Hank said when they were far enough away from the kitchen.

Charles sighed, uncorking the bottle and bringing it to his lips, knocking back a little too much on his first go. His head swam slightly, and though it didn't exactly feel _good_ , it assured him that he'd be nice and drunk not too long if he kept going. And that was something he dearly needed.

“No, I'm not. But he won't go, and I'd rather you not get grievously injured trying to make him.” He wasn’t sure if Erik would actually go that far, but he didn't want to chance it. “He'll leave once he finds he won't get what he wants from me.” He supposed they could try to capture Erik and imprison him, something they'd discussed years ago, before JFK's assassination, but Charles disliked the idea of being Erik's keeper, and they weren't exactly equipped to hold a metalkinetic here. Perhaps, maybe, if Hank modified his serum, they could use it on Erik--

No. No, Charles just wanted him gone. He didn't care about any of this, and he didn't want anything to do with it, not anymore. Every time he got involved, nothing turned out right. And making himself responsible for holding Erik, or drugging Erik against his will... He couldn't shoulder that burden. Nor could he live with the guilt of turning him in to the government and possibly subjecting him to some awful fate, for reasons he chose _not_ to think about.

Putting the bottle to his lips once more, Charles added, to change the subject: “The serum isn't lasting as long as it used to, I'm going to need more.”

Hank shifted, gaze dropping to his feet. “You're developing a tolerance, I'll have to modify it. But--” He hesitated, then finally spoke up: “Charles, maybe you shouldn't take so much of it. We don't know if there's long term side effects, and I never intended it to be used like--”

Charles didn't want to hear this now. “Thank you, Hank. But no. Not while he’s here.” He couldn't stand the thought of that, being exposed even a little bit to Erik's mind. Or, for that matter, to Hank's sad thoughts at what Charles had become. The second he'd seen the effects of using the serum at a full dosage, he'd decided he wouldn't use it the way Hank did, and he had no intention of stopping or scaling back. There was no point.

“Then maybe after he leaves, maybe we could--” Hank began, always so encouraging, as if he could actually pick Charles up enough to do more. It wasn't so far off from all those times Hank had tried to make him come into town with him for some reason or another.

“Please,” Charles cut in, “please don't. The last time I tried that-- I can't, Hank. I'm sorry. The serum, it's all I have. Please don't take it from me.” His shoulder slumped, and he held the bottle against his chest because it, too, was something else he needed right now. He blinked back the tears in his eyes, the thought of losing the thing that made him feel whole again, protected him from those painful voices, he couldn't do it. Maybe he'd never be able to do it. And he really did not care, either, the future was not something he thought much on. The present was hard enough.

“Alright. Alright, I'm sorry. I want to help you, you know that,” Hank sad, and he looked as guilty as he sounded. “I'll make more, I'll try to fix the effectiveness.” he paused, glancing toward the hidden door in the hallway that was the entrance to the downstairs labs and other facilities. Charles doubted Erik would miss it if he looked hard enough.

“Are you sure I can leave you up here, with--” Hank gestured back toward the kitchen.

“Yes,” Charles nodded, “I'll be alright. There are still places I can go where he won't find me. Thank you.” The labs, actually, may have been one such place, but Charles hated going down there now. He didn't even visit Hank in his lab anymore. Downstairs was where Cerebro was, downstairs represented what he'd wanted to build here, and what he'd failed to achieve. It was almost as bad as seeing Erik again, and best avoided.

After Hank departed (again with some hesitation), Charles returned to his room and gathered the last few vials of serum he had. He did not linger long there, however, and took his bottle of scotch up to the attic, where he sat wrapped in a blanket to protect himself from the cold. He did this for the next two days, seeing Hank only in the mornings (or rather, the hour before the afternoon started), where he was disappointed to learn that no solution had been found yet for his increased tolerance of the serum. The stuff lasted about twelve hours now, down from its previous twenty four, and before that its initial forty eight.

Avoiding Erik proved more difficult without the aid of his telepathy, but he was determined to do it. He ignored the other man, and anything he had to say, if he had the misfortune to run into him. Only once or twice did he point out that Erik really ought to just leave. And annoyingly, Erik simply ignored him, or refused. After a while, the attic became too obvious a hiding place, and Charles finally put on some warmer clothing and ventured out onto the grounds and towards the chapel.

Though he hadn't been to the chapel in ages—he remembered times as a boy when his father had gathered North Salem's Anglican community there and the local priest had given some sermon on something or another—as he stepped onto the grounds, he remembered the first time he'd gone outside with the serum, just hours after he'd taken it. It was in the spring, and he'd insisted on walking barefoot on the wet grass. He could still remember how good it felt beneath his feet, cold or not, and how he'd smiled and laughed for the first time in so long. He took some small comfort in that memory as he made his way to the chapel each day.

Erik would probably find him eventually, though. There were other places he might try going later, but Erik knew the house well, considering Charles had shown him so many parts of it before. Still, since he couldn't make him leave, Charles was content—alright, not _content_ , he was never content anymore, but willing—to wait him out. Hank told him, when they greeted each other each one morning that Erik always took the mansion's copy of the _New York Times_ after he'd finished with it. Surely, Charles thought, some “terrible lie about mutants perpetrated by the humans” or some other news story would compel the other to leave and go back to his cause. After all, his cause was more important than any attachment he still had to Charles, and it always would be.

This new and unfortunate status quo lasted for only about a week, though, longer than he had expected, when things went terribly wrong.

Charles had fallen asleep on one of the chapel pews, his drunkenness having ensured he didn’t care much where he slept. Hank always came to try and convince him to go back to his room, or ask if he could at least bring a mattress here, or to make sure the chapel's old heater still worked, and to inform him that Erik didn't seem to know where he was.

When he woke, as usual, his legs felt much number than they did with the full power of the serum running through him. He reached under the pew for the small box full of vials and threw it open, having a fresh needle ready.

It was empty. He was out.

Panic took him, and he forced himself to stand, pain shooting through his rapidly failing legs with every movement. He began to look under the other pews, shoving empty bottles of scotch aside, his heart pounding harder with each passing moment, realization dawning that somehow, he was out of the serum.

 _Charles..._ A familiar, concerned voice sounded in his head, a single, stray thought. That was how it always started, and then next came the presence of a mind. And this mind was like steel, strong, determined, full of knowledge that matched Charles’ own. Unique. Beautiful. Or that was what he’d felt one cold evening in Miami, when he’d leapt off a coast guard ship into the water to prevent that mind’s owner from drowning in pursuit of his vendetta. All he’d wanted then was to know Erik Lehnsherr.

And now he felt it again, and instead of being wonderful and welcome as it was in the months before Cuba, it felt like a hot lance of pain sliding right through his skull.

He stumbled forward, legs nearly useless now, and a pair of strong arms caught him before he could collide with the chapel’s carpeted floor.

“Charles,” Erik’s voice reached him, along with more stray and conflicted thoughts-- _pathetic, how could he do this to himself, cut out his mutation?--No, you did this to him, this is your fault!--I never made him become a miserable, poisoned drunk, or expected him to abandon his people--Not the Charles I love--_

“Erik,” Charles tried to sound firm, but he felt nothing but his own vulnerability, all on display, and a hurt he wished he could shove away at hearing Erik’s thoughts. “What did you do?”

“What was necessary. You’re no good to anyone like this, Charles,” Erik’s hands found his hips, supporting him, “and you were good before. You built a school, you were helping mutants. Maybe we disagreed, but you were still working for our cause--”

“It’s not my--” Charles started, wanting to shove him away, but instead he let out a cry of pain, and as Erik shifted him again, he found himself holding on to the other man’s shirt, their faces far too close for comfort.

Suddenly, a barrage of _feelings_ bombarded Charles, so immense, and all from the man only inches from him. Erik’s mind was a thrum of emotions, all directed at him, all so very strong: Contempt, _pity_ , anger ( _How could he leave them for_ this?), yes, but there also guilt, so much guilt, nearly ten years’ worth of it. Erik had been in his cell, certain Charles hated him, wondering how he could’ve prevented the other man’s injury, wishing he’d never left him there on that beach. Ten years, _so alone_ and Erik had thought of him so often, regretted so much.

And yet, within this brief glimpse, as Erik helped Charles to sit on one of the pews, Charles could feel what was under everything else, a feeling still as strong as it was nearly ten years ago: _Love_ , fondness, affection. Erik loved him still, Erik wanted--

No. _No_.

Now that he was sitting, Charles shoved Erik back, putting his hands to his head as other voices, other minds began to surface; he recognized Hank’s, full of sadness for him, and then others that he didn’t know, others whose pain was the strongest thing he felt.

“Erik, _please_ ,” Charles whispered, “please, don’t do this. I can’t, I can’t--” Erik’s, and his pain, was the strongest he felt. And not just because Erik was in front of him, no-- Erik’s mind, his very presence, always stood out, stronger than everyone else’s. And Charles didn’t want it, he couldn’t stand it.

“You can!” Erik said. “You taught all of us how to control our powers, Charles! You must have it in you to control your own.”

“No, no!” Charles shook his head, his voice shaking, “I can’t do this. I need-- Please, I need them to stop, I can’t make them-- Erik, I need more, what did you do with-” He gave another cry, eyes screwed shut as every bit of sadness--from a child’s tears over not getting a toy, to a mother’s loss of her son in Vietnam--from anyone within the nearest few miles swirled into his mind. And at the centre was Erik’s.

“There isn’t more,” Erik said, “I destroyed the rest. This is the best way, Charles. You just need to take the time--”

No. No, no, no no. Erik was still speaking, but Charles couldn’t hear him anymore, not amidst the hail of guilt and contempt and love being broadcast from his mind, nor the anguish of everyone else. Charles could not take it, he needed it to stop, he needed--

 _Hank! Hank, please, help me!_ He didn’t know if it worked, if he even had the capacity for such projections, but he had to try. And Hank’s mental affirmation, his worry, picked up for only a second through the din, confirmed that Charles had reached him.

Erik reached out a hand for Charles’ shoulder, and Charles did his best to shove him off. “You’re not-- You’re not helping me,” he managed. He wanted desperately to pull out of Erik’s mind, he would gladly take any of the others in place of him, in place of those _feelings_ he didn’t want, but as ever, he wasn’t strong enough, and he felt drawn to the other man’s consciousness like a moth to a flame, just as he’d been when they met. If only he’d known the truth about this man, this monster.

Maybe he was projecting, he didn’t know, but Erik’s thoughts shifted, his face falling slightly. _Maybe this isn’t the way-- he’s in so much pain,_ came one of many stray thoughts, joined by a new, quieter guilt. _Charles, I’m sorry--_

Suddenly the chapel door flew open and Hank came running in, all blue and moving so quickly Charles could barely see him. He careened into Erik, shoving him halfway across the room. “Charles!” Hank cried, pulling something from his pocket. “Charles, what did he--”

“Please, make the voices stop, _please_ \--” Charles whispered, barely aware of what was happening now, the pain Erik felt from getting knocked away shooting through every part of him, a kind of strange phantom sensation in his unfeeling legs.

“It’s alright-- it’s going to-- I’ve got--” Hank’s pity was rolling off him now, too, as he reached into a small pouch and withdrew a new vial, pulling the cap off the needle. “I managed to make a newer, longer lasting formula.”

Charles rolled up one sleeve with shaking hands, slumping back against the pew, his gaze falling to Erik, who just stood there now, a forlorn expression in his eyes. He made no attempt to interfere, that new guilt strong in his mind now. _Have to find another way, I can’t leave him like this-- All I ever do is hurt him._

Hank pulled the leather band taut against Charles’ arm, the needle sinking into a vein and the clear, amber liquid following seconds later. Hank must have added something more fast acting to it, because the last thought Charles heard came from Erik-- _Maybe I should leave, before I make it worse, I’m so sorry, Charles..._ \--before the quiet flooded his mind and he felt alone once more. His head slumped sideways, the serum’s immediate drowsy side effect even stronger than before.

“It’ll be alright,” Hank whispered, helping Charles to lie down, the blessed feeling in his legs slowly returning. Charles stared up at the ceiling, only marginally aware of Hank yelling at Erik, but everything felt so far away, and the initial kick from the drug made him feel so very, very floaty. He closed his eyes, content to let himself drift.


	3. Chapter 3

“What the hell were you thinking?!” Hank rounded on Erik at once, blue and absolutely furious. Erik’s gaze moved between him and Charles, who lay on one of the pews, probably too groggy to hear anything they were saying.

“I wanted to help him,” Erik replied, not nearly as strongly as he would have only an hour ago, when he’d come in here so certain of this. He should’ve anticipated Charles pain, he had assumed it would happen, but _seeing_ it, seeing his friend look like that ( _pathetic, he did this to himself_ , a part of him supplied, and he hated himself for thinking it) made it difficult to stomach. He’d hurt Charles so much already.

“No, you wanted him to be like he was, and this won’t get you that,” Hank gestured back toward Charles. “You don’t have any idea what it’s been like for him-- I told you, and you still don’t understand. He wants you to leave, Erik.”

Hank looked like he was spoiling for a fight now, like he didn’t care that Erik could hurt him, he just wanted him gone. And maybe, Erik thought, maybe he was right. His hands became fists and he moved forward, shouldering past Hank as he headed toward the door, wordlessly.

When he saw Charles, laying on the pew, head against a pillow, his not-so-bright blue eyes staring up at nothing in particular, Erik halted, frowned. _I’m sorry, Charles, I’m sorry, for everything._ He shoved the thought towards his (former?) friend the way he’d learned to years ago, but he was sure Charles couldn’t hear him. The drug had probably kicked in, once more suppressing one of the most beautiful parts of Charles Xavier. It hurt him to think of that, filled him with contempt once more.

He sighed softly, turning and leaving the chapel.

He made it all the way into North Salem before second thoughts began to nag him and make him feel even more guilty than he already was. He’d packed a bag with his Brotherhood uniform and some of the clothing he’d reclaimed from Charles, though the helmet was who knew where now. Not that it mattered, the person it was meant to protect him against couldn’t even use his powers. Besides, he could reclaim it later. He just wanted to be away from there.

And now he wasn’t so sure.

He could make it to the city proper from here, could get a flight out of JFK airport (his failure to save the president was yet another thing he had to make up for) and check the Brotherhood safe houses and contacts in Europe to see if he could find Mystique. Not that he had much hope, mind; he'd taught her plenty of things, but she'd perfected how to disappear without much help from him, thanks in part to her mutation. She’d always been very impressive.

Charles did not _need_ him, Erik told himself, as he left a clothing shop with a newly purchased pair of sunglasses and a hat. Charles didn’t even want him there, particularly now, but just listening to Hank felt like running away, much as it would have that first night he’d arrived. Erik had wanted to protect other mutants, and yet he found he was better at killing humans, at avenging the wrongs committed against his brothers and sisters than anything else. Charles was the protector, not him, and when the Brotherhood had saved children from experimentation, Mystique had taken up that role in Charles' absence.

As he headed down the main street, his eyes caught the bookshop, and at once nostalgia pulled him in. He and Charles had taken the children into town on their second day in Westchester, and while Raven had shown him North Salem, Charles had pulled Erik toward the bookstore. The titles that sat in the window now were different than ten years ago, but he could see Charles standing in front of it, smiling at him before he'd pulled him inside, allowing their fingers to brush together longer than necessary, but not too long lest someone notice.

They'd left that day with so many books that Erik had teased him, suggesting he should've just bought the entire store. Of course, one could never have too many, they both agreed. By that point, their minds had been connected all the time, Charles always listening in on Erik's surface thoughts, and Erik always making sure to push his love and fondness at the telepath. He'd stolen a kiss from Charles in the empty, back corner of the shop, as Charles was turning over some newly published analysis of Shakespeare's sonnets between his hands.

Erik knew then that he would hate himself if he left, and he’d only be confirming Charles’ views, that he never loved him (surely he couldn’t think that still, he must’ve been in Erik’s mind hours before), or that that love obviously didn’t mean enough for him to stay.

That decided that, then.

After stopping by the grocery store to purchase more items for the mansion’s woefully under stocked kitchen (he’d been amazed he even managed to cobble anything together thus far), Erik steeled himself to face Hank and Charles’ rage and went right back to them.

When he arrived, he received none of the anger he’d been anticipating. He had been gone only for an hour, perhaps not long enough for Hank, at least, to think he’d be gone for good. In any case, he didn’t encounter either of them as he put away all the food he’d bought. It was getting into the late afternoon now, and Erik would not have been at all surprised to find Charles still in the chapel, drinking or dozing. Tempted though he was to go and see, to try and apologize, he decided it was too soon. He would rather face a sober Charles, anyway, or one who was as sober as he could get these days.

As for Hank… well, Erik suspected he must’ve been downstairs, where he was clearly not welcome, considering the old entrances to it had been removed. All the metal gave it away, though, a huge mass of it below his feet, so much that he was barely able to make out the tiny amounts of metal in Hank’s glasses. It surprised him that this apparently now-secret area was so easy for him to sense and feel out; but then again, Charles probably didn’t want to have Hank go to all the trouble, probably didn’t want to think about Erik at all.

He put it out of his mind, made himself some tea and a sandwich before he went to the library.

Really, he ought to have been prepared for the onslaught of memories. He hadn’t set foot in this room since the last time he’d been here, nearly ten years ago, and this place had been one of his and Charles’ favourite, along with Charles’ study and, of course, the man’s’ bedroom, though the last was obligatory anyway. But here, here he felt assaulted by several recollections the moment he stepped through the doors.

On their first night here, Charles had promised Erik he could read whatever he wanted, a sentiment that had sparked an hours long literary discussion, before Erik had taken Charles against one of the bookshelves (he could still remember _exactly_ which one), three fingers pushed between Charles’ red lips to keep him from being too loud. The whole time, as he rocked against him, Charles' legs clinging to his hips, their thoughts and feelings mingled together, every sensation, every ounce of pleasure, joy, and love that the telepath felt for him flowed into his mind, courtesy of Charles' power. It hurt to think such a wonderful ability had been cast aside so readily.

“Erik,” Charles had whispered, afterwards, looking completely dishevelled in all the best ways as they sat on the floor, “wonderful as that was, I think we should spare the bookshelf next time.”

“Should we?” Erik had replied, taking a long glance over the titles arranged there and making a decidedly disapproving face; all of them were political manifestos, in some form or another., from the 20th Century. Thankfully, Charles’ mother had at least had the good grace to leave fascism out of it. “Some of these aren't worthy of the rest of your collection.”

Charles' eyes had strayed up to where Erik was looking, at Ayn Rand's _Atlas Shrugged_. Seeing it in the same collection as Marx's _Das Kapital_ (translated, of course) amused Erik thoroughly. “You don't care for Rand, Erik? I would've thought you'd appreciate her philosophy, considering it's exactly the sort of thing you've been trying to convince me about humanity.”

Erik's eyes went from the bookshelf and back to Charles, so he could trace a lone finger along his friend's neck, savouring the shiver that brought. He very much looked forward to ruining Charles even further. “Just because her philosophy appeals to humanity's basic selfishness, and is honest about it, doesn't make her writing any better, or her over reliance on straw men.”

Charles turned into Erik's shoulder to quiet his laugh before Erik pulled him to his feet, supporting him. “You know, my friend, that you rely a bit too heavily on that fallacy yourself.” That was always something he loved about Charles; he was never afraid to challenge every aspect of his arguments. Erik did the same in return, of course. They'd continued their good-natured debate as they made their way upstairs, where it only stopped when Charles pressed his lips to Erik's to put an end to any more intellectual conversation.

Looking back, Erik supposed that Charles had never thought their main point of contention--human-mutant relations and how to handle them--would ultimately be the thing that drove them apart. He himself had feared it, but felt sure Charles would come to his senses. Perhaps the telepath had thought the same of him, or that he could convince Erik. They’d both been fools, though Charles more so.

The metal chess set, always Erik’s favourite, sat folded in Charles’ drawer, the same place it had been left the last time they were both in here. He took it out, without the use of his hands, and arranged it, settling down exactly where he always did, on the table before in his favourite armchair. Of course, that lasted only about fifteen minutes, before he hurried to the bookshelves and returned with a copy of _Nineteen Eighty Four_ (a book he’d not read in years and years) to distract himself from his own impatience.

Charles did not come that day, nor the next, and Erik finished the book, then added _Animal Farm_ (a mere afternoon for that one), _Coming Up For Air_ and two collections of Orwell’s essays to the pile of finished books. Near the end of the week, he was going through the shelves pondering more reading material when the doors open and Charles entered at last.

He got three steps into the room before he spotted Erik and froze.

“I thought you’d gone,” Charles said, swaying, his voice surprisingly clear considering the glass in his hand was empty and he stunk of scotch, even from this far away.

“I told you I wouldn’t,” Erik replied, all the things he wanted to say to Charles suddenly falling away, the arrangement of his words forgotten. Apologizing before would not have been so terribly difficult, but now what happened in the chapel loomed large, a spectre that would surely keep Charles from forgiving him.

Much to his surprise, Charles merely shook his head and walked right into the room, going past him and to the shelf containing the children’s books. He withdrew a hard cover a moment later, and Erik managed to catch the title - _The Hobbit_.

“Tolkien. A little escapist reading?” Erik ventured, his tone soft, as neutral and curious as he could manage.

Charles snorted, looking toward the pile of books beside Erik’s chair. “It’s more upbeat than yours, I think. But you always liked Orwell, didn’t you? I should’ve--” When Charles looked at Erik, met his gaze, he stopped, his expression hardening and the words dying on his lips. Erik knew why; for just a second, Charles had spoken to him like they were friends, like it was 1962 again. That dull ache in his chest, the hole in his heart that Charles had made when he refused to go with him, that Erik had made bigger when he’d abandoned his friend felt even worse than usual then.

“Charles,” Erik said. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for everything, for leaving you in Cuba, for your legs, for what I did to you in the chapel. I know I don’t deserve your forgiveness, but I--”

“Stop,” Charles’ voice barely rose above a whisper, every inch of him trembling, one arm clutching the book to his chest. “Just… stop, Erik. Please.”

Instinctively, and habitually, too, Erik took a step toward him. In 1962 he wouldn’t have hesitated, he’d have taken Charles in his arms and kissed him and held him until he felt better. But not anymore. Not when Charles immediately took a step away and Erik’s stomach twisted hurtfully at that.

“What, you think you’d come back here and apologize and everything would be alright? That I’d stop taking the serum for you? You must think I’m only half of what I was-- No, I know you do, I saw your thoughts. I know you think I’m so foolish and pathetic, no better than a _human_.” There weren’t just tears in Charles’ eyes now, they were on his cheeks, too, and _god_ Erik wanted to comfort him, to embrace him.

Except this was all his fault, Charles wasn’t hurt by some other person who Erik could be angry at, not by an abusive step brother or a mother who neglected him, but by _Erik Lehnsherr_ , who loved him.

“Charles, I never thought everything would be--” Erik tried again, planning to avoid bringing up the serum, but it _did_ make Charles half of what he was.

“Please… Please leave, Erik, please,” Charles whispered, unable to meet his eyes, voice trembling. “I loved you, but you left me to die, and you took my sister from me. I know that you couldn’t have ever loved me back. And now I want nothing more to do with you.”

Charles turned his back then, and walked toward the door. Erik had only a small chance to run after him, to say something, to refute him or to apologize to him or _anything_.

“Charles!” Erik called after him, taking several steps forward. “I’m telling you the truth, I know you can’t see it like you used to, because you gave up a wonderful part of yourself and--” He stopped, saying that, going there, was not a good idea. “What we had meant-- still means a great deal to me. You know that. You were in my head then, and again this morning.” His voice took on an impassioned tone, not so dissimilar to when he made one of his speeches, but so much more personal. Charles had stopped moving now. “I care about you, Charles. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t still be here. I’m a fugitive, it would serve me better to leave the country. Why else would I be here if I didn’t really want to help you?”

Charles didn’t turn around, not once, during Erik’s pleas. His shoulders slumped slightly, the only sign he’d been listening at all. And then he walked from the room, completely ignoring Erik’s words.

Erik’s doubt loomed large then, and he had to squash his anger at Charles’ refusal to even _try_ to dig himself out of the metaphorical pit he’d fallen into, or the fact that Charles dismissed every apology Erik made, wouldn't even _listen_ to him. He really _was_ pathetic, pretending to be a human. Yet getting angry at him did not help, not when his feelings for him hadn’t changed, and his longing had only grown during their years apart.

He’d wondered years ago how he could love this infuriating man so much, and he wondered it again now. Especially as Charles simply _ignored_ him. Erik had never been good when it came to talking about his feelings, but he was always better at it with Charles, because the other had a wonderful power that made it easier. Charles without his power was incredibly frustrating.

Still, giving up was not in the cards. Even if nothing else resulted from this, Charles was a mutant who needed help, and part of the Brotherhood’s M.O was to help mutants.

So, he turned and went back to the bookshelves, fetching himself a copy of the _The Fellowship of the Ring_. He’d not read any Tolkien in a good long while, not since before he met Charles, and he hadn’t really cared so much for it then, but now he wanted something more uplifting than Orwell.

About three days later, he'd finished it, and he hadn't seen Charles at all. Or at least, he hadn't seen him enter the library. There were plenty of times when he saw Charles venture out into the cold, not dressed nearly as warmly as he ought to be, to take a walk around the grounds, or go somewhere that Erik couldn't guess. It probably wasn't to the chapel, not after what he had done to him there.

Charles would always glance at him, sometimes with a glare, and Erik would feel an ache once more at the loss of Charles' power. He'd been unhappy about it before, but now that it was gone, he had to fully admit to himself that he missed having the telepath in his mind, missed being able to shove thoughts and feelings at him and get them in return. Of course it wasn't the only thing he missed about Charles, not by a long shot, but it was something he always denied after Cuba, always refused to think about or accept. When he put that helmet on, he'd ripped Charles out of his head, and his heart, and for so long he'd ignored the pain of it because it had been necessary, or so he'd thought.

Erik was mid-way into _The Two Towers_ before he saw Charles again. And by that point, he was becoming impatient, getting tired of waiting every day in the library, and annoyed that he'd likely be rebuffed if he offered Hank his services in cleaning up the house or doing something useful that was non-serum related. At least, though, he had the books; he'd never had much to read in prison, and he'd always found Charles' library so very impressive.

When Charles returned, he ignored Erik and went into the bookshelves, just like the first time. He returned with nothing but a look of irritation on his face, as his gaze fell on the copy of _The Fellowship of the Ring_ that sat atop Erik's pile of finished books by his chair. Erik hadn't put it back on purpose, he'd been sure Charles would read it. He was always a bit of a completionist in that way, usually felt compelled to read the next book in any series he thought was good, even if he'd read it before. Strange, though, that Charles hadn't brought back _The Hobbit_ ; he was usually more orderly about books than he was about anything else.

With a frown, Charles moved and snatched up the book from the pile, his gaze lingering on the chessboard that sat before Erik before he turned to go.

“Charles,” Erik spoke up, not wanting to waste this chance. “Fancy a game? It's been a while, and prison was short of worthy opponents.” He tried not to sound gloomy, but probably failed given the circumstances. He'd imagined games of chess so often in prison, usually ones with Charles, the things he'd say to him, the apologies, the declarations of continued love.

Charles actually turned back to him slightly, running a hand through his messy hair, the book clutched tighter in his free hand. His shoulders didn't slump, though, and when he looked at Erik he was just... sad, not really angry. Just sad, resigned. Erik tried to ignore the twist of guilt that went through him; he missed seeing the other smile, or hearing him laugh. The constant re-frame of _this is your fault_ that ran through his head just made it that much worse.

“I don't think I've played since our last night,” Charles said softly, sadly. “Hank is brilliant, but he doesn't really care for the game. And the stu--” He stopped, suddenly, voice shaking.

And then, much to Erik's great surprise, Charles sank into the chair across from him, the book falling onto his lap. He glanced to the empty tumblers nearby, making a face, but didn't move to run off to find more of his precious alcohol, to Erik's great relief. It was still strange seeing him without a glass or a bottle of some kind.

“As it seems I can't be rid of you, Erik...” Charles spoke softly, bitterly, reaching out to move the white pawn in front of his queen. Erik wondered then if his words days before had an impact. He thought about replying, but ultimately said nothing, opting to reach for the tea cup that sat before him instead. He did want a drink, and he had partaken in the scotch that Charles still stank of, but it was a bit early for that, and Charles didn't need any encouragement to drink more.

Erik studied the board, moving one of his knights into play. Charles responded without much hesitation, and Erik immediately recognized the tactic he was going to employ, an old gambit. Then again, Charles was probably more out of practice than he was. Still, how challenging the game was mattered little to Erik, what mattered was that Charles was playing, they were in each other's company, and no one had yelled or said anything hurtful.

Neither of them said much at all, actually, the silence of the room enveloping them both in a calm Erik hadn't felt around Charles since before he returned here. It was sad not talking like they used to, but maybe that would come later.

Still, Erik couldn't help but risk ruining it, for the sake of something else he'd wanted to say for a while. He looked across the table, meeting Charles' gaze. “I didn't kill Kennedy, Charles,” he said softly. Charles' expression broke somewhat, the careful, neutral mask he'd been holding in place during the game falling away completely to once more reveal the sad, miserable man he'd become.

Before Charles could speak, though, Erik continued: “He was one of us, I wanted to save him, I tried to, that's why the bullet curved, but they stopped me before I could. I was sure, when I found out what he was, that others must have known, too, and that one of them would try and kill him.”

Charles stared at him, disbelief colouring his expression now. “Why should I believe you, Erik?” He looked like he wanted to say something more, but he didn't.

Erik resisted the urge to make some quip about how Charles could easily see if he was telling the truth or not. “I haven't lied to you, Charles, not once. I know what you think of me, but I've never told you anything but the truth.”

Looking away, Charles made a clearly half-hearted move that only exposed his queen to attack. Erik did not take the opportunity, instead continuing to look at Charles.

“You have killed people, Erik,” Charles said, so soft Erik could barely hear him. “Even if not the president, you've still murdered others.”

“Humans who were experimenting on us, who wanted to do us harm, who _had_ done us harm, yes, Charles. Yes, I killed them,” Erik said at once. Any time he thought he might feel remorse for it, especially for the younger ones, he banished it by telling himself that those same people had murdered children, had killed Angel and Emma and so many others. If he let them live, they'd never stop.

“And Raven?” Charles demanded. “Did you turn her into a killer, too?” His voice broke then. “What happened to my sister, Erik? Where is she?”

Erik balked at that, thinking of Mystique, as she'd wanted to be called, of how much he'd cared for her, and how she'd grown up so much, even in the few months she'd been with him and the Brotherhood before his imprisonment.

“She never killed anyone, Charles, not that I saw.” He'd never really been very surprised by that; Raven had come to him an innocent, and her hands were still clean when he'd left her, but she was still capable. He always thought she'd eventually realize that some people needed to die, but that was not a line she'd crossed. In some ways, he had envied her that.

“I don't know where she is,” Erik added. “But I'm sure she's alive, you'd be proud of how much she's grown up, how capable she's become. I can't imagine anyone ever getting to her.”

Charles reached forward and knocked his king over then, rising from his seat. “Proud of her? You wrapped her around your finger and took her from me! She never even wrote! You not coming back here to see me, that hurt, Erik, so much, but she-- She's my sister, I raised her, and somehow you made her not care enough to even--” His hand gripped the back of the chair, eyes brimming with tears before he shoved his sleeve against his face.

Erik wanted to rebuke so much of that—Charles' thought that he had _raised_ Raven, that was part of the very problem, part of the reason she'd wanted to leave to begin with or that Raven had never cared—but all he said was: “That's not what you said the day she left. You told her to go, that it was what she wanted.”

“Because _you_ convinced her--” Charles put his hand over his face. When he spoke again, his voice was much sadder. “I'm tired, Erik.” He looked at Erik again, his lower lip quivering, tears clearly held back. “You're not going to leave, are you? Even if I give you back that wretched helmet?”

“No.”

Charles sighed. “Then we can both be miserable and angry together.” He turned, making for the door. “I need a drink,” he added, leaving before Erik could protest.

His mind was already fraying around the edges, the foreign fear of thousands of men aboard ships off the coast of Cuba invading his head space, pushing toward him, his shields nearly completely shot. Worse still, was the memory of the coin driving through Shaw's brain, that sharp pain, one, he was sure he'd never forget, not tomorrow, and not years from now.

He knew everything that was about to happen, he always _knew_ it, but he never did anything differently, never tried different words to talk Erik down, never took Moira's gun from her and still _stood_ up as she started shooting, when he ought to have remained still.

Not that his actions mattered as much as Erik's that day. Erik, who deflected Moira's bullet right into his spine, sending him face first into the sand with a pain that felt like someone driving a very precise knife into his back. He'd never forget that, either.

“We want the same thing!”

“My friend, I'm sorry, but we do not.” The realization hurt, almost as much as the bullet, or the coin, or the fear of those minds of the ships, but Erik's _face_ , he didn't need telepathy to see the anger and betrayal there. A small part of him was glad, in that moment (and even more in hindsight) that he couldn't read Erik's mind just then, despite that damn helmet silencing Erik's mind and making him seem like a walking corpse instead of a real person, making him just so... _wrong_ , as if he'd been swallowed up by that awful silence.

None of the pain that he'd felt that day could compare to the realization that Erik wasn't coming back, that he wasn't even going to ask his newly-recruited teleporter to return for them, to get Charles to a hospital. _Why did you leave me, I thought you loved me, you bastard, I thought you cared about me, about the others. Why did you leave us—leave_ me _here to die?_ ran through his mind over and over again as Hank scrambled to find a way off the beach.

That pain, the agony of that betrayal, of finding out that all the exchanged words, the silent promises, the nights spent together, naked and warm, the possibilities of their future together had not meant as much to Erik as his bloody _cause_ , that all swirled together with the memories of trying to escape Cuba, and, days later, the grim face of a doctor in Westchester telling Charles he would probably never walk again.

He'd cried after that, after sending everyone away he'd cried into the pillow. Not just for his legs, but because of the man who'd taken them from him, the man who never came came back.

“Charles!”

Charles woke with a start, hands moving up to shove at whoever had been shaking him gently, and then pulling back when he realized he was touching Erik's chest. He scrambled away, up to the headboard.

“You were having a nightmare,” Erik said softly, his brows knit and his lips turned downward. Even without telepathy, Charles remembered that look; worry. He'd had nightmares sometimes when he and Erik were together, too, mostly after they'd come back to this house. None were ever so bad as Erik's own nightmares, though.

“So you've decided to watch me sleep now? Or were you trying to steal more serum, because I--”

“No, you were talking in your sleep,” Erik said at once, “and groaning. I heard you when I was on my way to my room.”

Charles fell silent, his hands clenching in the bed sheets. Damnit, Erik had probably heard him muttering about Cuba, probably knew Charles still had nightmares about it, and about Erik, too. That may not have been as bad as in the old days, when he'd have just projected the nightmare to everyone, but it was still too much vulnerability. And it gave Erik yet more opportunities to go on about how sorry he was.

Finally, perhaps a bit petulantly, he said: “I'm fine, Erik. I don't need your charity.” He wanted very much to keep his brave face on, at least until Erik left the room, because the pain from the dream still hung over him like a cloud. In the past, it wasn't unusual for him to sob himself to sleep after having that dream.

And now, he felt more hurt, more sad, than angry, knowing that Erik really _was_ sorry, knowing the apology he gave a few days ago was heartfelt, knowing that Charles still _meant_ something to him. He hated himself for softening towards Erik a little in light of all that. He hated that a part of him just wanted to throw his arms around Erik and beg him to stay, to mean it, to never leave him again.

He felt so lost in his own vulnerability that he was only aware that Erik had moved to the door when he looked up and saw him there, hesitating. “Erik,” Charles spoke softly, unable to stop himself.

“Yes?” Erik's voice was steady as ever.

 _Stay with me, please. Don't go. If you're really sorry, then don't leave me again,_ Charles almost said those words, and he was thankful the darkness of the room hid his quivering lip and tear-filled eyes. He drew in a slow breath, steeling himself, then said: “You're just going to leave, after you've done whatever you intend to here. After you've 'helped' me, or 'cured' me, or whichever foolishness you think you're doing, you're going to leave again. You haven't come hom--” His voice caught, and he paused, deliberately, to re-arrange his words: “You haven't come back to stay, have you?”

Charles couldn't make out Erik's expression anymore, not when he was no longer close, but he sounded sad, resigned, when he said: “No, I haven't.” A beat, and then he added: “But I still—I still want you with me, Charles. We could still work together, you and I. We could still accomplish so much more together than we ever could apart.”

They could. Oh god, they could. But not that way, not the way Erik wanted, and clearly not the way Charles desperately wished for either. “Erik, you should know by now that will never happen, not as you would like it to.”

Charles didn't need to see Erik's glare to know it was there. “You're still on their side. They took your students to fight in some _human_ war, probably experimented on some of them, murdered them, and you still care more about protecting them than--”

“Erik, _stop_!” Charles almost cried the words, and what was worse, the floodgates had opened now, with Erik's harsh words, the pain of his nightmare coming right back around, that knife in his gut twisted again. He began to cry, sobbing softly, his shoulders shaking, the sounds coming from his lips utterly pathetic as tears fell from his eyes. He gripped the bed sheets still, looking everywhere but at Erik.

Which was why he didn't notice him moving toward him, didn't know the other man was putting his arms around him until it was too late for him to protest.

“I'm sorry,” Erik whispered, arms wrapped around Charles' shoulders, his face not so far from Charles' hair. “I'm so sorry. For the chapel, for everything else.”

Charles ought to have shoved him away, protested, told him he wasn't forgiven (he wasn't), but he couldn't deny the words were true, he couldn't pretend Erik was lying to him any longer, or that Erik never loved him. All that was nothing more than something he'd used to allow himself to hate Erik, or at least to try to.

Whatever he should've done, it shouldn't have involved sliding in closer and wrapping his arms around Erik's torso, or burying his face against his chest and just sobbing more. Erik smelled just as Charles remembered, felt the same, too, though he'd nearly forgotten both, had tried very hard to. All that only made it worse, and he felt sure whatever time they spent here for the next few days or weeks would, once more, be the last time he saw Erik. He'd think of how they would be enemies, if he had any desire at all to go back to trying to make a difference, if he thought anything might actually work out, but this was proof that it never would.

“You're going to leave,” Charles whispered, the words broken by his sobs and sniffles. “What's the point, Erik? Why are you doing any of this?”

“You know why,” Erik replied, one hand threading gently through Charles' messy hair now. Charles did know, of course he did, but Erik didn't say it, not those three words, nor any of the rest of it. Erik surely wanted to make up for everything, at least some, as much as he could, without giving up his wretched cause.

He was still glad Erik didn't say it, because he didn't want to feel compelled to do the same. Erik was never good with this sort of thing, Charles remembered, and it made telepathy come in handy. That was no longer an option, though.

Silence fell over the room then, as Charles slowly stopped crying enough to pull back, just slightly. His hands still rested against Erik's back, and now their faces were so close it reawakened a thousand different memories of looking at Erik like this, in the dark, all of them good and fond. Charles was sure Erik was considering the same possibilities he was, but ultimately they were rejected when he laid his head against Erik's shoulder. Doing anymore was a bad idea and he knew it.

“Will you--” Charles spoke after a while, trying to steady his voice: “Will stay with me, just for tonight?” _I don't want to sleep alone._ He'd done that every night since Cuba, and the nightmare still lingered so much that he needed contact, he needed someone, and he knew that someone was Erik, no matter how much he wished it could be anyone else.

“Alright,” Erik replied. He shifted, pulling back the bed sheets on his side and slipping off his shoes before moving under the covers. Charles slid up against him, breathing in deeply, and closing his eyes. He didn't feel content, no, but he felt more comfortable than he had in a long time.

If only things had worked out differently, if only the world was a different place.


	4. Chapter 4

Neither Erik nor Charles said anything to each other about Charles' new choice of sleeping arrangements, not the next day, or the next three times when Erik woke up in the morning and found Charles sleeping soundly against him, still unkempt and smelling of the scotch he was probably drunk on every night. Erik always screwed up his face at that, but he couldn't yet bring himself to say anything about it, because that might drive Charles away. And, appearance aside, waking up next to Charles every morning was nice, familiar, and comfortable. It filled him with nostalgia, too.

One morning when Erik went down for breakfast, leaving Charles asleep in his bed, he ran into Hank for the first time since his ill-advised attempt to get Charles off the serum in the chapel.

And, surprisingly, Hank didn't really react to him much beyond the usual glare and the alertness Erik had come to associate with Hank expecting an attack that wouldn't come. In fact, the silence was enough to make him comment dryly, as he sipped his coffee: “Not going to threaten me and tell me why I should leave? You're breaking a perfectly good pattern of guard dog behaviour, you know.”

Hank stiffened slightly, but did not rise to the bait as he placed two pieces of bread into the toaster.

“Have you checked to see if Charles was with me every night before bed, or just the last two?” Erik took another sip of his coffee, he found something slightly satisfying in arguing with Hank. Maybe it was petty of him (oh, it was), because Hank had been here the last ten years with Charles and Erik hadn't been ( _that's your own fault, isn't it, you idiot_ ), but really it was probably that Hank had made that damn serum, and Hank seemed to think mutants ought to hide. That he'd found a way to reverse the effects of his enhanced cells from ten years ago, thereby ignoring Mystique's advice, was proof of that.

Hank's head jerked up at Erik's question, the _how..._ going unspoken. “Your metal,” Erik said softly, sipping his coffee once more, “watch, glasses, pens...” Unlike Charles, Hank was easy to find, and Erik had learned the other man's metal to make the task easier. He wished Charles would wear some, like he used to, so he could learn that, too.

Hank shook his head. “Just don't hurt him,” he said, his tone biting, “or I might forget how he asked me not to hurt you.”

 _I won't_ and _Never_ both go unspoken, because neither of them are true. Erik wished they were, wished he could say he was truly incapable of hurting Charles, of all people, but... no, he was still a monster, still a flame that burned people if they got too close to him. If he weren't such a fool, if he wasn't letting his heart rule his head now, he wouldn't be letting Charles get so near.

The metal of the toaster distracted him as it ejected Hank's toast and Erik watched him remove it and set to work on it with the butter. “That serum you made,” Erik said, the words enough to give Hank pause, “didn't you try just making one that would just allow Charles to walk again, or did you have to pair it together with something to take his powers away?”

Hank glared at him again, his default expression it seemed. “Of course I tried! I'm still trying; it's not easy to separate the two elements. Charles wanted it the other way, he wanted something to make the voices stop. I know it's not ideal, I know he's taking too much, that he's probably addicted to it. But believe me, this is still preferable to the pain he was in before. You've probably never lost control of your power, so you won't understand.” With that, Hank took his toast and shoved past Erik, exiting the kitchen.

And no, Erik supposed bitterly, he hadn't. He'd just not been able to use it to save his mother, and then he'd hated it for so long afterwards.

That afternoon, just like every afternoon since they'd begun sharing a bed, Erik set up the chess set for a game in the library and waited for Charles to join him. He still, Erik noted, hadn't fetched _The Two Towers_ , perhaps he'd given up his reread of _Fellowship_ , or forgotten about it.

When Charles arrived, like he had every night, Erik was standing by one of the bookshelves, going over the titles of the various political manifestos. He had a glass of scotch in his hand, which seemed to prompt Charles to go and refill his. Though for once, Charles didn't seem particularly drunk, or even tipsy.

“I never did ask you, Charles,” Erik spoke up, gesturing toward the books, “why so much variety? You have both Rand and Marx here; was someone in your family a communist, or did your mother just value completion?”

When Charles looked at him, Erik thought he might've seen something resembling a smile on his face, for just a moment, but perhaps he was just seeing things. He certainly didn't imagine the slight flush that reddened Charles' cheeks, though, hidden only a little by his beard. No doubt Charles was remembering the first time they'd talked about this, years ago, and the activities that preceded it.

“My mother was far too busy looking pretty at society balls, and then getting drunk, to be concerned about politics,” Charles said. And Erik found himself thinking that the alcoholism Charles seemed to have developed ran in the family then. He was smart enough not to say it out loud.

“Those books were my father's-- my real father's,” Charles went on. “he approached politics with careful research and thought, just as he approached everything else. If he'd found Marx more appealing, he might've become a communist. But my step father, Kurt-- He was utterly paranoid about the communists, he might've even joined the John Birch Society if he were still here when it was formed. He loved my mother's money so much, always talked about his fear of the classless society. He read Marx, and he talked of going to the local party meetings just to see what sorts of shocked and awful things they were planning.”

That actually got a smile out of Erik, which was a rare occurrence in these past few years. They had that in common, it seemed. “Imagine that, a rich champion of the proletariat, showing up to party meetings in his expensive three piece suit, keeping his cover by bemoaning the oppression of the lower classes. I'm sure they would've been on to him in seconds.” He took a drink, and felt a pang of triumph when Charles actually turned away to hide what sounded like a chuckle.

“You know I don't think he quite got so far,” Charles managed, after being silent for a moment, “but--” He looked like he was going to say something else, and then he frowned and simply continued: “I wouldn't think these things interested you any longer, Erik.” Charles took a seat, immediately inching one of his pawns forward.

“I can still have hobbies,” Erik said, sinking into the chair opposite Charles, quickly moving one of his own pawns. “The prison library was lacking.”

Charles' eyebrows went up. “So they left you without White, Orwell, and Wilde, then?”

“Orwell and Wilde, yes, but not White. They had some Dickens, but it was mostly full of terrible American pulp.”

Charles took a sip of his drink. “How terrible for you,” he said, the sarcasm dripping from his words.

Erik frowned then. “It was,” he said softly, seriously. There were still some nights when he woke up afraid that he'd dreamt all of this, and that he'd never actually left his concrete box. Ten years was a long time to be alone, and now all he could think was what Charles had said when he first arrived, that he'd _belonged_ there. He didn't need to ask to see that Charles hadn't changed his mind, probably still thought he was a monster, too.

Well, he couldn't expect everything to change all at once.

There was one thing he would like to see change, though. “Charles,” he spoke up after a bit of silence, and more moves exchanged. Erik felt like he had the advantage for the first time since their initial game days ago.

“Hmm?” Charles didn't look up from the board.

“If you're planning to spend every night in my bed from now on, I'd like you to at least shower regularly. You stink of scotch, and it's obvious you haven't left this house in weeks, maybe months.” He'd been meaning to mention it for a while now, and he now he proposed it with his usual bluntness. If Charles could read his mind, he might've heard Erik add, to himself, _I hate to see you like this, not taking care of yourself._

Charles snorted, just looking at Erik for a moment, eyes cold and face otherwise wearing the same sadness he always did. It made it difficult for Erik to tell exactly what he was thinking. Erik thought maybe he'd done it, and that Charles was just going to get up and leave him there, maybe with some cutting remark about how he should mind his own business.

Thankfully, Charles didn't move, he didn't say anything at all really. He just sat there, surveying the board and then making a move. An unfortunate move that led him right into Erik's trap. It didn't take much time at all before he’d beaten him, and he couldn't quite resist sounding slightly smug as he announced it: “Checkmate.”

“Well done,” Charles murmured, not quite sounding like he meant it. Erik remembered the first time they played, how Charles had come off as quite a sore loser, utterly shocked that anyone could have defeated him. When Erik had managed it two more times, Charles seemed so determined to beat him that he had to talk him out of another game with kisses, and then by dragging him to bed. The next night, though, Charles had beaten him. They'd always been evenly matched, and that was part of the thrill.

Erik had been planning to tell Charles something, to venture a suggestion to him all day. Maybe it was too soon, maybe he ought to wait, but he couldn't help it. Besides, he'd already dug a hole with that remark about Charles needing to shower more, which may have been enough to keep Charles from coming back to his room that night anyway.

“As I've won, there's something I want to say,” he said, shifting.

“I'm sure you would have even if you'd lost,” Charles replied, frowning slightly, but he made no other objections.

Erik searched his face for a moment, then finally shoved his doubts aside: “Raven missed you, Charles, she missed you a great deal.”

Charles' face fell, but he remained silent.

“She cared about you, she was even angry with me for not sending Azazel back to help you and the others, even though I knew you'd survive. But she never knew about what happened to you, even I didn't know that, not until you were at my trial. I may have...” He paused, unsure if he wanted to admit as much, but then, he was trying to be honest here: “II may have influenced her not to write to you, I wanted her to leave you behind like I had.”

Still Charles said nothing, his expression cold now.

“And I am sorry for that, I really, truly am. But I think if you looked for her now, she'd be happy to see you. I don't know where she is, but I'm certain she's alive, and I know Hank has rebuilt Cerebro. If you wanted to see her, talk to her, you could--”

Charles began to laugh then, a bitter sound that echoed throughout the library. He let his hand run down his face, and Erik stared at him. “Oh, I see,” Charles said, his tone biting. “That's why you're here, isn't it, Erik? You want to find my sister, because she's the only member of your organization left alive, isn't she? You got the others killed, and now you want her so you can pull her right back into your war.”

Erik recoiled as if he'd been slapped, nearly stood up, the words hitting him like a blow to the face. His expression hardened, and he had to steel himself against saying all sorts of things that really would be very counter productive. His tempter still flared, nonetheless. “No, I--”

“Don't, Erik, don't deny it.” Charles stood up, downing the rest of his drink in one gulp. Where he'd seemed tired and sad these past few days, the anger that Erik had thought was gone had come back in full force. “I'm never going to turn that machine on, or get inside your head, or Raven's, or anyone else's, ever again. And I'm certainly not going to hand my sister to you so you can finish turning her into a murderer and lead her to the same fate as you did the others.”

Erik was on his feet a second later, too, advancing three steps toward Charles. That he'd gotten his friends killed, that he'd led them to that; he'd considered that before, and now the accusation hit so close to home that he wouldn't stand for it. He may have failed to protect them, but Charles, of all people, had _no right_ to tell him that. “We were _fighting_ , Charles, for our brothers and sisters, unlike you and Hank. Everyone who was with me wanted to be there. Raven wanted to, and you don't know how determined and driven she is if you think she would've given that up because I haven't seen her in ten years.

“I'm still here because I want to _help_ you, Charles, and if I want to find Raven it's because I care for her. I am still capable of that, despite what you think.”

“You're not going to help me,” Charles snapped, swaying on his feet, trembling with an anger he'd likely be projecting right now if he had his powers. “I'm not the man I was, Erik, and I'll never be what you want to me to be, either.”

And with that, predictably, Charles turned and walked out of the room. Erik glared at the chess set.

That went about as well as expected, he thought bitterly. He'd probably just managed to destroy any goodwill he'd earned with Charles because he'd put forward his request too soon, as a motivation for Charles to stop taking that poison. Then again, Erik probably would've gotten that reaction no matter when he suggested it.

And of course, the next morning, Erik didn't wake up with Charles beside him, and found no evidence Charles had even slept in his bed.

The next morning, Charles actually paused to consider the possibilities behind Erik's words the previous day, before he shoved them away and pressed the needle into his arm, ensuring his own freedom from his abilities for the next three days. And his legs, even though he knew he'd just lounge around all day, unable to find the motivation to go and do anything else. Even Erik's criticism of his hygiene went ignored. To hell with Erik and his suggestions, as if he had any business at all making them.

Never mind the comfort he'd felt falling asleep with the warmth of Erik's body next to his, or that he'd slept better than he had in years. And he wasn't even going to _consider_ Erik's suggestion about using Cerebro to find Raven, to talk to her and see how she was. No, that would only end in disaster , much like it had the very last time he'd gone looking for students, when everything was falling apart and he'd tried desperately to tell himself it could all still be saved.

He tried to put it out of his mind for the next two days, picking up the copy of _The Fellowship of the Ring_ and making an attempt to finish it. Except it only reminded him of Raven, and how he'd read it to her when they were teenagers, like he'd read her _The Hobbit_ when they were children. In fact, everything suddenly seemed to remind him of Raven: Every room in the house had some memory of the two of them, either hiding from Charles' stepbrother or just playing hide and seek, Charles attempting to allow Raven to be a little girl as much as possible while he had to grow up far too fast.

He remembered, too, reading one of the acceptance letters from an English boarding school to her in the study, and the both of them celebrating their escape from this awful house. Any happy childhood memories of this place, aside from one or two with his father, included Raven. She really had softened the hardship of living here. And when he thought of how things ultimately turned out, he couldn't blame her for any of it.

No, that was all Erik's fault. And his own fault for trusting Erik as much as he did, thinking he could _change_ him. Any of that good Charles had felt in the man years ago was probably gone now, or so diminished there was no chance of ever bringing it back.

 _But maybe you can still help Raven_ , he thought to himself on the third day, as he sank onto the couch in one of the drawing rooms. He tried once more to stop thinking about that—he wasn't strong enough to use Cerebro, he wouldn't be able to stand all those voices and their pain—as he opened that day's copy of the _The New York Times_. The date at the top read December 5th, 1972.

Heh, it was December already. Erik had been here longer than it felt like he had. And another year was almost up. Charles barely paid much attention to the slow march of time these days, he hardly had anything to look forward to. At the beginning of the war, he'd held on to some faint hope that maybe some of the students might come back if they were sent home, but that never happened. And slowly, over time, he'd seen their names in the paper, like he'd seen Sean's name, among lists of the dead. Or they just never returned to the school, for one reason or another.

Today's headline (or the most prominent among them anyway) read _Kissinger and Tho Meet Twice in Day As Talks Resume_. Charles pointedly ignored that, as it was news of the war, and flipped through the paper's various sections. He would've avoided the one about Vietnam entirely if one small article, buried at the bottom didn't catch his eye: _Reality or hallucinations? People with strange abilities reported on battlefield._ He couldn't help reading it, though its tone was skeptical, but it contained eyewitness accounts from anonymous, wounded soldiers, some of whom claimed they'd been told to keep quiet. They talked of witnessing people, both on their side and among the Viet Cong, with strange powers that Charles knew immediately were mutations. One soldier spoke of someone who could make the enemy sick with a look, and another mentioned a member of the Viet Cong wielding fire in his hands.

Charles' chest tightened at the thought of the bright young men from his school out in the jungle, afraid, using their abilities just to stay alive, and opening themselves up to risks from their own government. Maybe that was why he'd never heard from the ones whose names didn't end up on lists of the dead, and the thought made him think bitterly of what Erik might say if he knew, of how Charles had _abandoned_ them.

He closed the paper, and his eyes, trying to hold back his own guilt at that. In giving up, he'd failed once again. And he'd never even considered that until Erik had come along to tell him, in the worst way. He knew he probably couldn't have saved them from the draft, but there must've been something else he could've done to protect them, surely, or to at least ensure they were treated the same as the human soldiers. Even if it meant exposing himself.

Yet he knew there was one thing he could do now, if not for his students. He could find Raven. Maybe he could even convince her to come home, regardless of what Erik said. Or maybe she wouldn't listen to him, but at least he'd know if she was alive, wherever she was now. All these years he'd resisted trying to find her and Erik, telling himself they'd made their choices, but now he was sure Raven had only gone because Erik had gotten into her head. But Erik wasn't with her now, so there might be some chance.

He stood up, resolved, and went back to his room to have a shower for the first time since before Erik had arrived. It felt good, refreshing, like he was emerging from a long sleep with some sense of purpose. It didn't matter that he might return to the serum after the task was done, what mattered was that his life no longer felt so aimless. He even put on some proper clothing, and resisted the urge to help himself to a glass of scotch.

Instead, he went downstairs in search of Hank and found both him and Erik in the kitchen, dancing around each other as if one might kill the other if he made any sudden moves.

“Hank,” Charles said, drawing both of their surprised gazes, but pointedly ignoring Erik's. “Your serum has been invaluable to me, but I need to stop taking it for a while, so I can use Cerebro to find my sister.”

For half a second, Hank looked rather surprised, but then he smiled a bit, and Charles knew him well enough to see he was genuinely pleased about this. “Oh, that's... that's great, Charles. It's almost been three days since your dose, so tomorrow it should start to wear off. I can go up to your room and make sure there isn't more in case you start having second thoughts?”

“Yes,” Charles nodded, realizing now that was going to be a good idea. He'd become quite dependant on the stuff. “Thank you.” Charles turned to go then, heading back out into the foyer. The sun hadn't quite set yet, he still had time to see it, and enjoy the last night he'd be able to walk for a while.

“Charles,” he turned from the door to find Erik standing in front of him.

“Please don't,” Charles said at once. “I'm not doing it for you, Erik, or any of your purest ideas about my only being half of what I am without my abilities, or because you want to know where Raven is. I'm doing it for her.” He opened the closet and withdrew his winter coat. “And now I'm going to go for one last walk around the grounds. Please don't follow me.”

He left before Erik had a chance to say anything.


	5. Chapter 5

Erik was amazed he managed to get any sleep at all that night. He suspected Charles did not fare much better, though he couldn't say for sure, considering Charles was still angry with him. He wished he could've accompanied his friend on his walk around the grounds; he missed the long conversations, the friendly debates, and the way the other would smile at him when he came up with a particularly good rebuttal to one of Erik's arguments. The closest they'd come lately were short lived discussions about literature and politics before his ill-advised suggestion about using Cerebro to find Raven had turned Charles against him.

Still, at least Charles had taken the idea to heart.

He did not see Charles for the rest of that night, nor did he try to find him. He had no desire to have another argument, and besides that, once Charles could read his mind again, he'd see that Erik had wanted to use finding Raven to motivate him off the serum, not so he could use Charles to find her and then leave again. He fully intended to go to Raven, but not yet, not until he'd finished here. Once more he thought bitterly about how Charles wouldn't go with him, how they couldn't be side by side.

The thought of Charles in his mind, of Charles eventually getting to influence him and make him give up his cause, that made him want to ask—no, _demand_ for his helmet back. Which put him in an impossible position because it would upset Charles. Besides, Hank wasn't going to give it back, he was sure of that, and he hadn't been able to find it, though he felt sure it was downstairs somewhere among the maze of metal that probably helped keep it hidden.

With so much on his mind, Erik didn't fall asleep until quite late. Down the hall, he could feel Hank's watch and glasses in Charles' room, and he imagined they were either talking or Hank had fallen asleep there. Either way, he had to shove down a stab of jealousy at that. He couldn't help but wonder then if Charles had ever turned to Hank for his more... _intimate_ needs, and that just made him glare at his closed door.

In the morning, tired though he was, he forced himself to get out of bed at around 9 am, which was dreadfully late for him. Charles, he thought fondly, was always the one who slept in, sometimes disgustingly late, but not him. Nevertheless, he got dressed, left his room, and trudged down the hall, stopping before Charles' room and opening the door just a bit.

Inside, he saw Hank was passed out on the sofa by the small bookshelf, an issue of _Scientific American_ laying on the floor where it looked like he may have dropped it. Erik's more immediate concern, though, was Charles, who was sitting on the edge of his bed with his back to the door. Not too far away sat a wheelchair, whose metal hummed under Erik's senses, and he had to admit it was quite well made, even if Hank had probably done it. He tried not to think of the guilt that curled through him at the sight of it, finely crafted or not.

“Hello, Erik,” Charles said softly, the words also whispered in Erik's mind. Erik could feel dull tendrils of regret, sadness, and uncertainty at the edges of his own mind, and he'd long ago learned to recognize when Charles was projecting.

Quietly, Erik entered the room, walking around the other side of the bed to face Charles. The telepath was barefoot, his legs hanging off the end of the bed, his toes clenching and unclenching. Following Erik's gaze, Charles tilted his head, his hair falling past his shoulders to obscure his face ever so slightly. “Not long now, I'm afraid. I'm starting to lose feeling,” he said. “I'm usually asleep for this part, and when I wake up, I can hear the voices, but I always had a dose on hand to make them stop.”

Erik couldn't think of anything to say in response, certain he'd only be rebuffed if he expressed his pride in Charles' decision, though he did stretch out his powers to ensure there were no nearby doses of Hank's poison for Charles to use.

Charles chuckled softly at that. He looked far too tired for the rage Erik had previously seen him express. “That's the very problem, isn't it, Erik? Hank's serum has helped me, but you only think of it as poison. You're so stubborn you can't even consider how much pain I've been in, how my abilities turned against me.” His voice went quiet then, but a stray, probably uncontrolled thought whispered into Erik's head: _And you weren't there when I needed you._

Erik flinched slightly at that, wanting to tell Charles not to do that, but he could guess he had no control. “You're right, I don't,” Charles whispered.

“I did consider it, Charles,” Erik said, “I saw it, in the chapel. I should've come back before now.” He knew that was impossible for years, of course, but perhaps if he'd been more careful, he might've actually saved Kennedy, or at least stayed out of prison for something he didn't even do. If he could go back, he would do so many things differently. And seeing Charles before him now, losing his ability to walk, only reaffirmed this.

Charles smiled sadly and Erik thought it no better than his usual expression. “Don't pity me, Erik,” he said. “You never wanted me to do the same to you.”

“I wasn't. I'm just sorry, Charles... you know that.”

Charles looked away then. _It's not the paralysis, I know that was an accident, it's that you left and you never came back, that for ten years I thought I would never see you again, and I wanted to hate you. But I can't._

Erik kept silent, unsure if he was even meant to hear the words, considering the whispered _damnit_ that followed them, he felt sure he wasn't.

A burst of foreign determination went through Erik's mind then, as Charles placed both his hands face down beside him and pushed himself up, his feet hitting the floor. He managed, for about half a second, to stand, and then, as he tried to take a step, he swayed forward, one hand coming to grab at his back, a sharp cry escaping his lips.

Erik didn't even hesitate to catch him, placing himself between Charles and a tumble to the floor. Once more they were pressed together, their faces close as Erik wordlessly helped Charles back to sit on the bed again. He couldn't stop the thoughts, the guilt, that went through him; Charles could never be his full self and use his legs again. It seemed there was nothing worse Erik could've done to him, accident or not.

“Erik, stop-- Stop _thinking_ those things,” Charles bit out, one hand coming up to clutch at his head. He shut his eyes, and Erik knew without asking that the voices were getting louder, and within minutes Charles would be back at his full telepathic capacity, and lack the means to control it. It certainly didn't help, Erik realized, that they weren't so terribly far from North Salem, and its population of several thousand people, who Charles could evidently hear. Having to try and block out all those people was probably near impossible for him.

And indeed, Charles gave no indication that he'd really heard Erik over all the other voices. When Erik stepped back, he realized that Charles was clinging rather tightly to the hand Erik still had on his shoulder.

A groan drew Erik's attention, barely, as he looked over at the couch where Hank stirred, yawned and sat up. “Charles...” He spoke, a bit groggy, as he reached for his glasses and put them on. For once, Hank didn't actually glare at Erik, and Erik didn't really pay him much attention.

“Good morning, Hank,” Charles whispered, closing his eyes. “Everyone is so very, very loud today. I can't t seem to... turn them off.” He sounded to Erik almost like he was somewhere else, somewhere unpleasant, trapped.

“I can get you something for the pain,” Hank said, putting a hand on Charles' shoulder, “and you need to eat something, to get your strength up.” At that, he looked at Erik, almost expectantly, but Erik merely ignored him. He was not going to go downstairs and be relegated to kitchen staff (even if he could cook and enjoyed it), not while Hank stayed up here and looked after Charles. No, instead he gave Charles' shoulder a soft squeeze, the telepath's hand still gripping his.

“Alright,” Charles whispered, “I suppose... yes, something for the pain.”

“And food,” Hank added, regardless of the disinterest he probably felt from Charles, just as Erik did. Hank was right about the food, though, Charles _did_ need to eat. Something for the pain might've been comfortable, too, except Charles was probably going to need something strong, something that would likely dull his senses. Hank, it seemed, wanted to solve everything with drugs, it disgusted Erik more than a little, particularly because so far it had just had a negative effect.

If Charles heard any of that, he gave no indication of it, instead glancing at Hank as he walked from the room.

“Erik, would you mind... I'd like some water, please,” Charles whispered, meeting Erik's gaze again, blue eyes wide.

“Alright,” Erik said, giving Charles' hand a squeeze, before he wrapped his arms around him in a quick embrace. He didn't care if Charles was still angry with him, he just wanted him to be alright, to regain the control he'd so skillfully taught others all those years ago. He tried to push that care, that affection, towards him, even if he didn't hear it.

When he pulled back, Charles was looking at him with those kind, sad eyes. It took him a moment to pull away from that gaze, turning and walking to the bathroom after taking a glass off the nightstand. He caught sight of himself in the mirror, trying to bottle up any remaining fear he still had. Charles couldn't modify his mind like this, not on purpose, his powers were too out of control. Perhaps he could still hurt Erik, in fact he probably could, but that was just a risk he would have to take if he wanted to help his friend. Assuming, of course, that anything he did actually _would_ help, there was always the chance it wouldn't.

Filling up the glass, he turned and walked into the bedroom again.

_He's never coming back--_

_I wonder when daddy is coming home--_

_Face it, he doesn't want to be with another man--_

_\--a year to live--_

_Now I can't even give her kids--_

Charles clutched at his head, the voices a never ending barrage of painful thoughts, always standing out above anything happy, their hopelessness bombarding him. So many fathers lost in the war, so many friends, people fearful they'd never find love... It was all too much. He turned sideways, tried to curl in on himself, but he couldn't move his legs, could barely even _feel_ them now, so he wound up slumped on his side, wanting the world to stop moving, to just _shut up_ for a moment so he could catch his breath.

His shields were non-existent, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't pull them up, he'd never had to deal with so many voices, or so much _pain_ before. He let out a soft sob, eyes closed tightly.

“Charles!”

A voice... yes... familiar-- Erik. Erik's voice, Erik's mind, so bright, always standing out above the others. Except it barely did now, and despite allowing Erik to help him, letting him pull him up, put the glass of water to his lips, Charles still felt angry with him. Or he still wanted to. But he didn't have to time to think about that now... He didn't have time to think about anything, really.

_He could control me, make me stay with him, change me, if I let him-- I should force Hank to give me my helmet--_

“For god's sake, Erik!” Charles choked out, that last stray thought unmistakably Erik's. “I'm not-- I would never do that you. If I-- If I could have, I would've stopped you from throwing back the missiles in Cuba, yes, but not by altering your mind. I wouldn't force you to stay, I didn't even do that to Raven--” And he certainly couldn't do anything to him now, not that he exactly expected Erik to take him at his word. Erik didn't trust him... and the feeling was mutual anyway, but it still hurt, still stung like he'd been rebuffed, rejected by someone he cared about far, far more than he should've.

“Charles, look at me,” Erik spoke softly, and Charles met his eyes. _Maybe he does mean it, but it doesn't matter now. You owe him your help._

Charles took another drink of water, shaking hands held steady by Erik's, the liquid cool and refreshing in his throat, on his dry lips. When it was empty, Erik set the glass aside and cupped Charles' face in both his hands, a move that nearly sent Charles back into an array of fond memories, or would have if those damn voices weren't still shouting in his head.

“Charles,” Erik leaned toward him, “I want-- Can you focus on my mind, and only mine?”

A curl of disbelief went through him at the request, and in response he felt a pang of guilt from Erik's side, and knew he was projecting again. “I... perhaps, yes.” Erik's was always the brightest, the strongest, after all, and that still hadn't changed, not even after what happened in the chapel. Charles still felt so very drawn to him, and that orderly and beautiful mind of his.

So he tried, pushing into Erik's mind to the best of his ability. _I could harm you, you know... Are you sure, Erik?_

_You won't, Charles,_ Erik's mental voice sounded so certain, despite the fear Charles could feel coming from him, that he was trying to hide. “Ten years ago, you found the brightest corner of my memories,” Erik said aloud, his voice a little on edge. “Can you do it again? I want you to.”

The disbelief Charles surely projected came out stronger now, because Erik-- _Erik_ , of all people—was inviting him in, wanting him there. Charles closed his eyes, bringing a finger to his temple, or close as he could with Erik's hand in the way, and delving deeply into the familiar warmth and brightness of his friend's mind. And in doing so, the other voices faded into the background, just barely discernible now.

The journey to that bright corner was sloppier than it normally would've been, and along the way he picked up other memories, all the more painful ones standing out: Nearly ten years in a concrete box, Erik wondering if he might go mad, the loss of metal like losing a limb, the overwhelming guilt he'd felt when he'd beheld Charles in his wheelchair for the first time, Erik as a small boy, crying as he carried his mother's body to the ovens, white ash that could've easily been mistaken for snow falling all around him, the pain of being shoved onto Shaw's operating table, being cut into, watching Emma die and Azazel and Angel being taken, the horror he felt when the bullet he'd tried to stop killed Kennedy as the secret serviceman shoved him to the ground and the real killer escaped--

Charles very nearly pulled away, nearly retreated from all those painful memories and recollections; Erik truly had lost more since they'd parted, been subjected to pain even he did not deserve, and Charles at once felt terrible for suggesting that he belonged in that underground prison, cut off from his mutation, forced to endure the solitude of it.

_Charles,_ Erik's voice whispered to him, and Charles knew he was sharing everything he found, inadvertently, that Erik may as well have been along for that journey, too, because there was pain in that mental voice. _Please, don't-- Keep going._

Charles' free hand gripped Erik's arm now, and finally, _finally_ , he pushed the painful memories aside and found the ones he was seeking. He was so shocked by them, by there being more than one, not just the memories of Erik's mother, but others, too, that he nearly jerked away all over again.

They were all of Charles.

Of course Erik still thought of his mother, she was still there, but the rest were memories of 1962. Of Charles laughing, smiling, encouraging Erik to move the satellite, kissing him, the two of them lying tangled in the sheets after they'd confessed their mutual feelings for one another, even some of the friendly debates they'd had. It seemed like Erik considered nearly every moment he spent with Charles after they'd made love the first time (and some before) to the night before Cuba to be bright and wonderful enough to hold that coveted spot in his memories. And Charles knew, then, too that Erik thought of him when he found that point between rage and serenity, that Charles had joined Erik's mother in that task.

Those were some of Erik's happiest memories.

Charles tilted his head, his bottom lip quivered, and Erik could only give him a small smile. “Erik...” Charles whispered, was all he managed to say. He knew, for near certainty, that he also must've made up on some of Erik's saddest memories, too. After all, it was the same for Charles.

Of course, there was more, as he sat so deep in Erik's mind now, he could feel it. The good he'd felt ten years ago, the 'so much more' he'd told Erik about, and that he'd spent the last several years convincing himself was no longer there, that Erik had crushed it the second he'd put that damn helmet on.

And yet, there it was... less bright than before, yes, but still there. Erik's care for the mutants he found, for everyone he'd lost, his desire to make a better world for them all to live, to protect them—he did horrible things, motivated by the good he still had. There was still hope for him, Charles realized, and some of the unkind things he'd said when Erik had first arrived felt so needlessly cruel now. One, in particular...

_Erik,_ Charles whispered into his mind, _I'm so sorry, my friend-- You're not a monster. You're not. I should never have said it, or thought it._

Though there was a burst of relief from Erik's mind, he still shook his head, smirking slightly: _Honestly, Charles, I finally managed to get you to accept the truth about me, and you change your mind again. Are you ever not going to settle for just being insufferably naive?_

_Never. You prefer me this way, I know you do._

_Only in some ways..._ Charles could tell the thought was a stray, not deliberately projected, but it didn't matter, he didn't have time to think about it, because Erik's lips pressed against his then, the contact far too chaste for ten years lost between them.

Charles' arms slid around Erik's neck and he pulled him backward onto the bed, opening his mouth, letting Erik take more of what he wanted, letting their tongues slide together as they they both groaned slightly, the kiss open mouthed and urgent.

Erik pulled away first, looking down at Charles, brushing some hair from his face. “I--” _I love you, Charles... I wanted to stop, but I never did._ The words flowed more freely from Erik's mind, just like they always did, and like they used to, they came with matching feelings that Erik shoved toward him.

Charles smiled up at him, letting Erik pull him closer as he lay down next to him. _I love you, too, Erik, and I never stopped, either. I thought I hated you, I tried to...._ His hand found his face then, Erik's mind overflowing with relief at the revelation. Under that, Charles felt the same insecurities that had always been there, the ones that made the other man so very possessive: He thought he didn't deserve the telepath, wondered how Charles could possibly love him, particularly after everything he'd done. That was a question even Charles, himself, couldn't answer, not as surely as he had years ago.

And no matter how happy this moment should've been, they both knew it couldn't be like it was.

_I do wish you'd stay with me, darling. We could find Raven together, and build the school, together, like I thought we were going to before._

A burst of sadness erupted from Erik's side of the connection, followed then by regret and some anger, though whether it was at Charles or circumstances or both was uncertain. Charles caught the small, stray _I can't_ , before Erik spoke aloud: “How do you feel now, old friend?”

Charles' face fell, along with his thoughts and hopes that Erik might change his mind so soon, let alone that he, himself, might overcome his own failures, and everything that had happened. “Better,” he said softly, “but I can still hear them. Your mind is just much louder now... I can't seem to shut anyone out, though, I'm afraid, there's too many.”

Erik nodded, before leaning in to kiss Charles softly again.

Charles only realized it, and the affection he felt from Erik were just distractions--well not, _just_ \--when Erik suddenly lifted him into his arms and bolted toward the now-open window. Charles, clinging instinctively to him, barely having time to a catch a glimpse of Hank coming back into the room, and to protest, before Erik jumped out the window, floating them upwards and away, Charles' metal wheelchair pulled close behind.


	6. Chapter 6

Once Charles had got done yelling at him—quite the lecture, Erik thought, he actually found the parts about him being overly dramatic rather funny, and felt bad for not taking the time to let Charles put on some proper, warm clothing first—and even the annoyance the telepath was projecting began to fade, a small silence settled over them. Incidentally, Charles' comfort seemed to increase greatly as the heat in the car grew. It was actually Hank's car, since it was the only one in the rather easily escapable garage that had a full tank of gas. Or any gas at all, for that matter.

“I haven't forgiven you, you know,” Charles snapped suddenly, shattering the silence while he looked down at his bare feet, his robe pulled tightly around his wool pyjamas. At least the heat in Hank's car was good. Erik waited, thinking he was in for another lecture, but Charles said nothing more.

“I know,” Erik replied, softly. “You've been projecting.” He knew things wouldn't be that simple, that regaining Charles' trust would take quite some time. The same may be true of him, too, but-- Actually, Charles hadn't forced him to go back, when he could've, or forced him to stop before he got Charles to the car. Not even in the initial panic and worry Charles had felt when Erik pulled him out the window, he'd maintained enough control to keep from altering Erik's mind.

“Of course I did, Erik, you idiot,” Charles said, a little less snappy. “I told you, I will never do that to you.” _If you'd have believed that, maybe you would've taken that awful helmet off._

Erik tore his eyes from Charles and looked at the road, even though he didn't really need to; he could sense the metal of any incoming cars, and right now the road was empty. _But you still would've stopped me from using the missiles,_ he thought.

_Yes. I will always try and stop you from doing anything as stupid as that,_ Charles' sadness, his wish that Erik would just _stop_ came with that thought. Erik couldn't help but scoff, but managed not to think anything too loudly in response to that.

_But I wouldn't have kept you from leaving,_ Charles added, _just like I never did that night outside the CIA complex. I wonder how many times I have to tell you that before you believe me._ Perhaps Erik would've flushed at the memory of that night, when they became lovers, if flushing were the sort of thing Erik Lehnsherr did.

But alright... very well, he thought, perhaps Charles wouldn't change him. Perhaps. He didn't feel quite so ready to believe it, having clung to it for so many years. And even so, he wouldn't give up the helmet.

“Where are we going?” Charles asked, changing the subject, his annoyance at Erik's refusal to believe him bleeding through their connection.

“Somewhere quieter,” Erik answered, tapping his temple to further demonstrate his point. Charles made no response to that, just used his hands to shift a little in his seat, probably to make his back more comfortable.

They didn't really speak much after that, and it was an hour before they reached one of several parks and turned the car in. There were trails all around here, he knew, but scarcely any people at all were within sight. He noticed a man and a woman sitting on a bench on the hill above them, among the trees. Erik could feel the metal in their binoculars, knew they were probably bird watching. Rather ridiculous, Erik thought, in this cold.

Charles shook his head. “Now, Erik, bird watching is a perfectly acceptable hobby.” The way he said it was without anger, for once, and he felt a lance of nostalgia, and guilt, because Charles sounded so very 1962 just then.

“Perhaps, if that's how the elite of Westchester choose to spend their time, but not in this weather.” Erik's reply felt very 1962 as well.

“They're both very happy,” Charles said, gesturing at the couple, “he's going to propose to her later. She's worried about the future, and the war, but it's buried under her happiness.” Charles seemed surprised at something, and he must've caught Erik puzzling over that because he added: “it's usually their pain that stands out most to me, that I can't turn off...”

Of course, Erik thought, Charles had trouble with that when he'd entered his mind earlier. He hoped Charles wasn't lingering on it now, though, because he wouldn't wish his pain on anyone-- Well, anyone but those who'd maliciously inflicted it on him. Certainly not Charles, though; he'd always tried to keep his worst memories to himself, even when he and Charles were together, he'd not wanted to share any of it anymore than he already had.

“No, Erik,” Charles said softly, “I'm not there, not now.” Erik nodded, sighing with relief; perhaps Charles was still among those happy memories, and that suited him perfectly.

“How many people are nearby then?” Erik asked.

Charles took a moment, raising a hand to his temple and closing his eyes. He grimaced slightly, a burst of sadness clouding their mental connection, and Erik wanted to reach out and take his hand—the car's windows were tinted, after all, so no one would see—but he wasn't sure he'd earned that yet, despite what happened earlier.

“Ten, including you,” Charles said at last.

“And how many of them can you shut out?”

Charles took a moment to consider, then: “Most of them perhaps..” _Except you, I've always had trouble with you, once you let me in._

Erik held back a smile at that (a stray thought, probably), remembering how once he'd given Charles access to his surface thoughts, and learned that Charles liked Erik's mind too much to pull away, he'd abused that privilege a few times, usually to distract Charles with rather inappropriate thoughts at probably inappropriate times. The frequent telepathic conversations they'd carried on had been quite something, too, even the innocent ones.

“Go ahead, Charles,” Erik said. “Try it.” He leaned back in his seat and waited, watched as Charles closed his eyes, felt his projected concentration and just a sliver of hope before Charles dropped his hand and looked at Erik, for once smiling.

“I've gotten all of them, my friend, except the happy couple.” Charles' triumph came through their connection next.

Erik returned that smile then. “Very good,” he said. “You're better at this than you think.” He thought for a moment, then added: “What next? Do you want me to take you closer to town, to see how many more you can shut out?”

“I think...” Charles pondered a moment. “I think we should stay here for a while, so I can keep practising. I am getting hungry, though.”

Erik nodded. “There's a diner some miles away from here.” He didn't explain how well he knew the area, and tried not to think of it either. Charles didn't need to know all of his secrets.

Suddenly, Charles put a hand on Erik's cheek, and gave him a small smile. Even though Charles still felt angry at him, and there was a hint of that projected, most of the feelings that washed over Erik then were fond, affectionate. “Thank you, Erik,” Charles whispered. Erik didn't know exactly what for, though—bringing him here, apologizing, still loving him, staying for as long as he had, cherishing memories of their time together?—but he couldn't help the joy he felt at it anyway.

He took Charles' hand from his cheek, sliding their fingers together.

They were gone for most of the day, and apart from Erik's solitary stop at a nearby diner to fetch some food, they didn't leave the car, Charles wasn't really able to in this weather anyway. By the time they returned to the mansion that evening, Charles was radiating triumph and accomplishment, projecting how pleased he felt that he managed to hone his shields enough to block out at least some of the voices.

And happily, he managed to talk Hank out of murdering Erik for kidnapping him and stealing Hank's car, though Hank was still none too happy about it.

For the next week, the three of them went out to less populated areas so Charles could continue to improve, though Erik of course resented Hank being there at all. _Must you be jealous of absolutely everyone?_ Charles projected once with amusement. Erik merely scoffed and shook his head.

And though Erik was well aware that Charles hadn't forgiven him, his friend's pleasure at managing to use his abilities—for the single-minded purpose of finding Raven, Erik knew—seemed to have overridden his anger against Erik, at least for now. Once more Erik found himself sleeping in Charles' bed, letting Charles stay in his mind for the sake of enabling his concentration, and reading Charles to sleep some nights with the copy of _The Fellowship of the Ring_ that had evidently been sitting on Charles' nightstand for some time now.

For a little while, Erik felt like they'd fallen into something of a comfortable routine, and though his eventual departure remained inevitable, it did not come up, not out loud, anyway, and rarely in their shared thoughts. Nothing between them progressed beyond kisses, hand holding, the cuddling they did as they slept together, and though Erik may have wanted Charles very much, hadn't had intimacy in nearly ten years, he was content to wait, not to take advantage of his friend in his vulnerable state.

The month of December rolled on, freezing and snowless, until one morning Charles rolled into the kitchen and said, “I think I'm ready, Hank, Erik, I'd like to try searching for Raven today.”

Though he claimed he was ready, Charles' heart was thumping loudly in his chest as he, Erik, and Hank got off the elevator leading into the basement. He wanted very much to believe he could do this, that he'd be able to find Raven, even talk to her, but doubts still lingered. He'd managed to reach a point where he could mostly keep the voices out, but he resented the method he employed for doing so, and how what it relied upon wouldn't always be around. Maybe he would find another way, but really, it was just as possible he'd return to the serum and his own melancholy once this was over; after all, despite what he found in Erik's head to the contrary, Erik could very well change his mind and go once Raven was found.

Charles felt a brush of reassurance, of encouragement across his mind, and glanced back at Erik. He'd been so absorbed in his own worries he'd not quite been paying attention to Erik's wonder at the metal halls that unfolded before them, or his rather silly and petty satisfaction at being allowed down here despite Hank's objections. Now, though, he sent Erik back a tendril of appreciation and gratitude. Even though he'd had to get used to being unable to walk all over again, having been on the serum since 1970, and even though he sometimes couldn't help but resent Erik for the bullet (less so than the rest of it), his old friend, his lover, had been so very helpful, so comforting. He doubted he would forgive Erik for a long time, but this past week had been quite something, almost close to way things were in 1962. Almost.

“Welcome, professor,” the computerized voice spoke to him as they stood before Cerebro's door, before the facial and retinal scanner got to work identifying him.

“Very secure,” Erik murmured dryly.

“Actually, it is,” Hank said, “I designed the security with you in mind.”

“I thought so, with all this metal--”

“Are you both finished?” Charles asked, as the doors opened and he navigated his chair through them and onto the bridge. Neither Hank nor Erik said anything else to each other, though Charles could clearly pick up almost matching _I wish he wasn't here_ thoughts sounding loudly in their minds. He might've tried to remedy that, if being in this room again didn't give him pause, didn't have him remembering the last time he'd come down here, and his failure then, too.

This was everything he'd run from before, laid out and calling to him to return to it.

Taking the helmet in hand, Charles pulled it to him and blew off some of the dust had that gathered on the surface of it. It could probably use a good cleaning, but he wasn't going to worry about that now. He took a deep breath, he'd not stretched out his telepathic muscles like this in so long. The past few days had been helpful, but learning to block out a few minds was different than what he would experience here, what he was going to take on.

_I know you can do this, Charles,_ Erik's mental voice whispered, _you're brilliant._

Charles did not feel particularly brilliant, nor had he for a long time, but nevertheless, he donned the helmet. The machine didn't even need Hank to turn it on, the instruments lighting up at Charles' presence. The lights dimmed and the whole room flooded with blue light the moment Charles reached out with his mind.

He gasped, but not in the awe and surprise he had the first time he'd used Cerebro, but in pain. Projections of red figures (mutants) appeared all around the room, and the worry from both Erik and Hank's thoughts seemed so quiet compared to the sudden cacophony of shouting voices, all of them broadcasting their pain so loud.

Mutant children ran from their human parents, others cried out on examination tables, others accused of their powers being dangerous. He saw them only because his mind had become attuned to it, and Cerebro had been programmed to help him hone in on them, but that didn't mean human suffering went unnoticed. The images spun around the three of them, but only Charles could hear the voices, or feel the pain they did.

“Charles,” Hank spoke up, sounding so far very away, “you have to calm down.”

Charles gripped hard at the arms of his chair. Calm down, calm down.... so much easier said than done. He should've been prepared for the initial assault, and yet it nearly blinded him with all its pain and the shouting. His shields felt so pathetic, too weak for this.

_Charles..._ Erik's voice spoke inside his head, loudly, somehow. Erik still stood out, even more when Charles wanted him to. He tried to steady himself, reaching up behind him for Erik, until their hands were clasped together. The physical connection cemented their mental one, and Charles re-cemented, reattached himself to that spot in Erik's mind, that bright corner where that splinter of goodness and hope could be found.

He'd been in there when he put the helmet on, but the force of all the other voices had distracted him, pulled him back. Erik's mind, Erik's nearness felt safe, helpful. And he hadn't even told Erik that either, nor did he plan to. He surprised even himself that he'd gotten decent enough at diving back to that one spot in Erik's mind without being noticed.

It made sense, he knew. If there was one person in the world who represented his point between rage and serenity, where he might find his focus, if there was one person who'd made him the happiest he'd ever felt, and one person who'd hurt him, made him more angry than ever, it was Erik Lehnsherr. It always would be. He just didn't know if he could keep this up without Erik around.

The images slowed some as he began, clumsily, to pick through the voices, the thousands of mutant minds laid out before him, from everywhere. He knew the one he wanted, could easily pick out Raven's mind if he had to search through a crowd for her, even though she'd never really let him read her thoughts, he could still always find her if she ever got lost.

He employed that now, seeking her out while he clung to Erik's hand and kept part of himself firmly in Erik's mind. The hope he held onto, small and barely enough, gave him the smallest amount of control, what he needed to push past the voices and all their pain in search of his sister.

_Raven..._ his mind whispered, reaching out further still, and suddenly she jumped out at him, her mind bright, thoughts determined and urgent, the adrenaline drowning out her fear, if she even felt any.

She wasn't safe.

The jungles of North Vietnam surrounded her, and she wore the guise of a man from the Viet Cong. Behind her were three people—a man, and a woman, and a little boy, all mutants—who stood clinging to each other while she held up her hands in surrender dropping her gun. Four others—also from the Viet Cong—approached her, each one armed.

Charles had to do something, he realized, maybe stop them, maybe get in their heads, make them fall asleep, save Raven--

But before he could, before he even managed to try something so complex and probably out of his depth at the moment, Raven lashed out at the first man, as all four of them were quite close now. She took hold of his gun by the barrel, shoving it sideways, the butt of the weapon driving into his stomach. Her flesh came alive, one of her legs snapping up to kick another of the soldiers right in the face before she'd even finished her transformation.

The fear felt by the little boy was so loud, so consuming that Charles felt pulled into his mind, his pain the strongest of them all. He saw the whole scene unfold through the boy's eyes, even as he caught glimpses of other things in his mind, things he wished he could've ignored, but he wasn't strong enough for that. He felt like he was just barely clinging to this, and only because he had Erik to anchor him. Sometimes Raven's mind had beckoned him in the past, but it didn't now, not the way Erik's did; she was singularly focused on her task.

Back in her natural blue form, she moved quickly now, unhindered by anything, dispatching the other two men in a series of flips and kicks that Charles could barely keep up with. Even the boy, scared though he was, felt some small sense of awe at seeing her.

“Come on, we're almost there,” she spoke, commanding and confident, as she picked up one of the pistols from the ground. Charles reached for her mind, struggling to get there, but he managed only to slide through it, assaulted by a myriad of memories and feelings, before he recoiled as she led the family further into the jungle. She had not even noticed Charles' presence.

They'd been experimented on, collected by the North Vietnamese government, Charles saw, and Raven had saved them and was taking them to meet others who would get them out. She'd done this hundreds of times now. She co-ordinated with others sometimes, but she was mostly on her own.

Charles tried to keep up with her, but the other voices were becoming louder again, and his head began to ache. He gasped once more, reaching up and yanking the helmet off, silencing all the voices and the pain and bringing him firmly back to the moment where Erik and Hank looked at him with all their worry.

His lungs pulled in two hard breaths, heart still pounding. He felt like he could sleep now, and not wake up for hours. He ran a hand through his hair, then looked at Hank, then Erik.

“She's alive,” he whispered, voice shaking, “my sister is alive.”

“You see, Charles?” Erik said,. “I knew you were strong enough.” There was a triumph that floated from Erik's thoughts, and pride, too. Charles resisted the urge to dig deeper, to see how much about Raven he'd projected, or what Erik's intentions were. Instead he slowly slipped from out of Erik's head, so he would only catch the surface thoughts, since that was about as much as he could block him out.

Hank, meanwhile, seemed very pleased with Charles' results, and he offered to stay behind and make a few adjustments to the machinery, perhaps he could improve Charles' level of comfort while using the machine. Charles was glad Hank skipped the part where he threatened Erik since he was leaving the two of them alone together, and where Erik didn't express the anger he felt at how much pain Charles had to go through to find Raven, and how Hank hadn't already found ways to fix it.

When the two of them left, Charles took a moment to try and parse through the thoughts and memories he'd gleaned from Raven's mind.

She hadn't killed anyone—thank god—her mind didn't have the darkness that came with doing that, the same darkness he'd felt from those soldiers who were trying to kill her, and who didn't shoot her because they were meant to take her and the others alive. She'd grown more driven and determined than she had been years ago, though he knew she always had the capacity for it. And she didn't need anyone to save her, clearly. He could feel out fragments of memories, of Erik teaching her, of her own doubts about his methods (he killed too easily, she thought, went too far), and how she'd been rescuing mutants from the Vietnam War, from both sides, since not so long after it had started.

And sometimes, she missed him. Sometimes she wondered how he was, worried for him, but she thought she'd never see him again, and considered him part of an old life she'd left behind in pursuit of something better. That hurt him a little bit, of course, but as he turned over the thoughts and memories he'd pulled from her, he couldn't help but feel a sense of pride.

She wasn't a killer, and she was helping people, helping mutants. And though he still worried for her, and wished she would come home, thought she really ought to, he couldn't begrudge her for the good she was doing.

After such an ordeal, Erik understood plenty when Charles wanted to nap. He followed him up to his room and tucked him into bed, before he settled into the chair with one of many books Charles had left lying around. This one was a manual of chess techniques and a history of the game. He found it rather dry, but it kept his interest.

He was about to go down to prepare dinner when Charles shifted and stirred. As he woke fully, Erik felt the tendrils of feelings projected from his head. It had become a constant, not nearly as controlled as Charles was in 1962; it had only been when they were intimate, actually, that Charles let himself lose that much control.

So Erik felt the telepath's surprise at seeing him before Charles spoke, his voice foggy with sleep: “Oh, you're still here. I suppose you expect me to tell you where to find Raven, then, so you can be on your way?”

Erik clamped down on his annoyance at that, and simply said: “She's in Vietnam, rescuing mutants. You projected most of what you saw of her. And no, Charles, I wouldn't even know where to look for her; she blends in rather well. She's probably picked up the language by now, too, she was always a quick learner.” Raven had learned French from him, and some German, too. Azazel had been teaching her Russian before he'd been taken.

“I'll stay here for a little while,” Erik added, “if I'm welcome to.”

Charles' surprise washed over him again, but this time there was something pleasant to it. “Of course you can, my friend. You're always welcome here. I hope that one day you will stay for good. I always thought of this as your home, too.”

Erik smiled at that. “How very arrogant of you, Charles, making assumptions like that.” His tone was dry, Charles' arrogance only annoyed him some of the time, and he couldn't quite be annoyed at that, not when it made his chest feel warm.

_This is the closest I've ever had to a home since before the war,_ Erik's mind added, only slightly unbidden. In a way, actually, he supposed, that it wasn't so much this place, as it was Charles. Charles was home.

And the telepath must've heard that, because he grinned, cheeks flushed, and said softly: “Erik, will you kiss me? Please?”

Erik did not need to be asked twice. He set aside the book and climbed onto the bed, settling in beside Charles. Bringing their lips together, he kissed softly, sweetly, a kiss that Charles took and made much more urgent and wanting. His hands gripped at Erik's hair, his tongue pushing into Erik's mouth, and Erik groaned in response, eyes slipping closed as one hand came up to slide over Charles' chest.

His fingers brushed a nipple through the fabric and Charles pulled away to gasp.

“Sorry,” Erik said quickly, pulling his hand back. “I didn't mean to--”

Charles took his hand and pushed it right back against that spot. “It's alright, love,” he said, “everything's just much more sensitive up here now. And I'd rather you not stop.” _It feels lovely._

“You mean-- You want to?” Erik stared at him, quite surprised by that. He knew Charles hadn't forgiven him, didn't think something like this was going to happen for a while, if ever again. He also didn't quite know how it would work, but he never questioned that it could.

_Yes,_ Charles' enthusiastic mental voice said, _very much. I've missed you, Erik, and there hasn't been anyone else. I tried... but none of them were you._

Erik could not, unfortunately, say the same, though he could say that no one was quite like Charles. _Well, I am rather unique,_ he replied, partly joking, as he slowly undid each of the buttons to Charles' shirt. Charles, meanwhile, didn't wait to start undoing Erik's trousers.

Erik kissed him again, drowning out the first of many moans that escaped when both of his hands brushed and pulled at Charles' nipples without the hindrance of the cloth. His hips pressed forward the moment Charles' hand slid into his pants, the kiss breaking so his breath could catch. He knew he wouldn't last terribly long, not after so many years without this, but that didn't really matter, not when they could just do it again later. He rolled forward into Charles' hand when he was pulled down for another kiss, their lips coming together so they could swallow each other's soft moans.

Afterwards, after they were both momentarily sated and they lay tangled together, they laughed about how Charles seemed to be building a little colony in his room for all the books he'd neglected to put back in the library, as well as the terrible state of his room in general. A warmth settled over Erik, like a blanket, and he knew he'd not been this happy since the last time he was here, years and years ago.

He refused to think about how eventually it would over.


	7. Chapter 7

The rest of December was cold, miserable, and without snow, not that Erik was paying much attention to that. Charles didn't seem to be, either, which Erik took as a good sign. Charles smiled more as time went on, commented that his shields were improving, and Erik even managed to talk him into going into town with him for a Saturday matinee once, which resulted in a trip to the bookstore afterwards and the two of them returning to the mansion with a not-so-small pile of books. Evidently Charles had missed the release of a few interesting titles during his self-imposed exile from the real world.

They played chess every night, usually followed by other less innocent things, and almost always fell asleep pressed together. Charles' nightmares dwindled, and Erik always fell asleep blissfully, his dreams better than they'd been in years, with no nightmares of concrete boxes and years of solitude. He wondered if Charles had something to do with that, but he didn't ask. Things were, for the most part, perfection. As was Charles, which Erik had no problem telling him rather frequently.

Of course, there were occasional downs. Charles sometimes got angry with him over something little, or their intellectual conversations would stray too close to debates on mutant-human relations for Charles, and the result would be an argument. What was once a topic of good, friendly debate had nearly become off-limits because of the split it caused between them. And inevitably those times reminded Charles of his anger toward his friend, and he would express it as such, sometimes even yelling at Erik for taking his legs.

Erik's guilt over that never subsided, no matter how many other times Charles told him it was an accident.

And then there was the inevitable subject of contention between them: Erik would always leave. It didn't matter if he came back in a few months, or even every week (though that was rather unlikely), Charles insisted, because he'd still leave, he'd still go back and keep doing things that caused more harm than good. That always made Erik angry, and usually it wasn't until the evening that they'd set it aside. Erik was willing to apologize for the hurt he'd caused him, but he wouldn't apologize for his cause, nor for teaching Raven to fight and encouraging her.

They both knew this would end, though, they just didn't know when. Some days Erik felt like it would be any day now.

On the morning of December 30th, they went out for their usual stroll around the grounds. Erik did go jogging some days, but mostly he pushed Charles' wheelchair around, both of them bundled in thick winter clothing as they admired the beauty of the sky. Everything else might be miserable, but at least the sky was always nice when the sun was out.

On that particular morning, they made it out to the gates, going up the driveway to the mailbox where they caught sight of Charles' mailman. His human mailman, Erik thought warily.

_That's awfully rude, you know, Erik. I've known Martin for years, and he never ventures beyond the fence. He wouldn't give away the school,_ Charles sent, along with his amusement.

_You're far too trusting,_ Erik sent back, giving Charles' shoulder a little squeeze before they got to the end of the drive.

“Morning, professor!” Martin, a thin, middle-aged fellow with unruly brown hair called out. He held a small bundle of letters, flyers, and one paper-sized envelope in his hands as Charles and Erik came up to him.

“Hello, Martin,” Charles smiled.

Martin handed a pile of letters and flyers to Charles, but retained a paper envelope, turning it over in his hands. “This one's for a Max...” He squinted. “Max Eisenhardt,” he managed finally, though not entirely without butchering the last time.

Erik stiffened at the name; it was one of his aliases, and he generally only used it with one person in particular, a contact who apparently worked for the American government.

“That anyone you know? Might've got the address wrong, didn't think there was a Max here--” Martin was saying, but Erik stepped past Charles and snatched the letter from the mailman's hand.

“It's for me,” he said, sounding more annoyed than he probably should've, “I've been staying here for the holidays.”

When Martin glanced at Charles, and Charles glanced at Erik, it took a moment before Charles nodded.

“Right then. Happy New Year to you both!” Martin said, going back to his truck.

Erik barely registered Charles' return of the greeting, or the cold wind that suddenly picked up, because he was opening the envelope, entirely too impatient. Inside was a file folder, but on top was a piece of paper with but a few words:

Max: Please save the rest, and avenge the others.  
\- K

So, Erik was right, it was from K. K, who he really knew very little about, who claimed during the one time they spoke on the phone (with voice scramblers) that he (or she, Emma had supplied once) worked for the US government, but was also a mutant just like Erik and wanted to help Magneto and the Brotherhood. Whoever K was, though, they must've had a great many resources, or they were simply very good at being sneaky and covering their tracks. Ex or current CIA, maybe, Erik thought. He hadn't really seriously considered the possibility that K might be human, though he supposed it was possible. It was very likely that K had broken him out of prison, supplying him with tiny amounts of metal in his food every day for two weeks.

“Erik, what is it?” Charles spoke up, interrupting Erik's thoughts, but Erik merely pulled the paper up and looked at the words on the outside of the file folder. They read, in bold imposing letters: _Trask Industries. Confidential._ Taking one quick look at the first page, Erik's stomach dropped, and his rage threatened to boil over.

“Not here,” he said, shoving everything back into the envelope.

When they were back behind the gate, Charles twisted his head around awkwardly and tried to look at Erik. _Erik, please tell me, what's wrong? What was in the envelope?_

Erik did not speak the whole way back to the house, no matter how Charles demanded him to. He was only glad Charles respected his privacy enough not to yank the answers from his mind. When they reached the door, Charles' projected frustration was nearly boiling over, along with the anger Erik felt at only the quick glimpse he'd taken into the file folder.

“Erik! Tell me! What's wrong? Please, don't make me read your mind and find out.”

“You wouldn't do that,” Erik said softly, “you want me to trust you.” The door opened with a wave of his hand he pushed Charles up the small ramp Hank had installed. And oh, he felt glad Hank has chosen today to go into work, so he wouldn't be here to witness the argument Erik knew would result from the envelope and its contents.

When they were inside, Erik took off his coat and dropped the file folder into Charles' lap. “Look,” he said.

Charles did, with Erik standing beside him, watching as he thumbed through page after page of experiment details, saw the pictures of mutants lying dead on operating tables, some of them with incisions visible in their chests. The first, the one that had had Erik's blood boiling, was Azazel; strong, powerful Azazel, lying dead in a photograph alter being _experimented on._

As Charles thumbed through the papers, his hand went to his mouth when he got to another familiar face, one of her once-pretty wings torn off. Angel. Whatever he thought of her, even though she'd joined Shaw and had been prepared to let him wipe out humanity, Erik could tell Charles didn't think she deserved _this_.

“Oh my god,” Charles whispered, his horror brushing over Erik's mind. Charles' shields had improved enough that he no longer projected everything, Erik couldn't blame him for this. He'd be projecting, too, if he were able. It had been an effort not to thinking too loudly about this on the journey back to the house.

“Yes, this is what the humans you want to protect so badly have done,” Erik said. “I told you it would come to this.”

“Yes, you're right, some of them want to kill us, to come after us, maybe I was foolish for not realizing that,” Charles' voice was surprisingly quiet. “And I don't want to protect _them_ , Erik, but I want you to understand that killing them won't help us, that it will just motivate others to take their place, and convince the governments that we're dangerous.” Erik was amazed Charles' voice hadn't risen, that he wasn't yelling by now. The frustration, and the grief he projected were certainly those of a man who ought to be screaming right now.

“If we don't stop them, then they'll keep killing us, and the justice system won't prosecute them! I've dealt with Bolivar Trask's company before, he's protected. He makes weapons for the war, he can do anything he likes to mutants and no one will ask any questions.”

“Revenge is not the answer, I wish you would see that,” Charles said at once, clutching sadly at the file folder.

“Trask has to be stopped.”

“You mean he has to die? Him and how many others? Where does it end, Erik? When do you stop all this killing, this endless cycle you think is so necessary?” Charles sounded less angry and more heartbroken now. He knew what was coming, Erik realized, and he had to force himself to turn his heart to stone, as much as he could.

“I have to leave, Charles,” he said. “It isn't just about justice for the mutants Trask has butchered, it's that there's others he has who are still alive. I have to protect them.”

Charles looked away, but did not protest the latter part of Erik's plan. Perhaps he might have even offered to help, but he was in no condition to do so, not yet. And Erik didn't want to risk having him in his head then, when he was planning to kill Trask and probably every last one of his human scientists who had partaken in this butchery.

Erik may not have asked, but Charles still spoke up: “Perhaps if you wait, perhaps I can help you save them. Raven is doing it, and she isn't killing anyone.”

Erik knew Mystique well enough, and he did not think that even she would object to his killing a man like Trask. Not wanting to kill soldiers and henchmen was one thing (though he had and would continue to do so), but opposition to killing Trask was entirely different. For all he loved Charles, he hated how his friend protested such things, even though part of it was clearly about his misguided attempts to save Erik.

“I can't wait,” Erik said, “if I do, more will die. You know that, Charles. And you know you don't want to be in my head when I go into one of Trask's laboratories.” _You don't want to see what I'm capable of, that I really am a monster, a weapon, that I will do what needs to be done where you can't._

Though he didn't mean to project the thought, Charles of course caught it. “You're none of those things, Erik, and I will never truly believe you are.”

As ever, Erik felt partly relieved by that. He had long since given up thinking he could ever be what Charles hoped he could, but he hated the thought of his friend completely losing his idealism, no matter how ridiculous he found it to be. Naive, idealistic Charles, who smiled so brightly, and believed so strongly, who encouraged him and everyone they found, and who wanted so much for the world to be better than it was, who was utterly brilliant in spite of all that, and could argue his positions just as well, that was the man Erik had fallen in love with. He'd never really quite understood it then, and he'd since given up trying; he just knew he didn't want to lose that Charles, not completely, and that he almost had.

Charles was the only person he'd met to know of his self-loathing and to challenge it so strongly.

Still, even so, he wished Charles would come with him, that he might have him by his side without completely destroying those parts of him. Funny how that worked. “You're so naive, Charles,” Erik said anyway, “and foolish.”

“Then why are you still here, Erik? Why did you come back at all? Would a monster really love anyone as much as you do? Would he really think it so important to send any mutant children he rescues back to me, as I know you've considered? Would he be as kind as I also know you can be?” Charles said, smiling sadly. “And you might want to remember that I have been in your head, and I know you're fond of my idealism, that a part of you wishes I was right. If you stayed with me, we could pursue that. Together.”

Now it was Erik's turn to look away. God. Bloody telepaths.

“I can't, the world isn't the way you want it to be, and it never will be. I'm still going to leave, old friend. Not forever, but for now.” He approached Charles then, kneeling down before his chair, one hand finding his as he took the file folder from him. “I'll always come back here.”

Charles looked down at him sadly, and Erik knew there would be no further arguments for now, that they were both too set in their ways for them. “And you will always leave,” Charles whispered, bringing a hand up to Erik's face. He looked so miserable, so heartbroken then, as if they were back on that beach.

_I haven't left yet, we still have today,_ was the only answer Erik could give him. That, and the kiss he followed it with, slow, sad and sensual. Charles' hands bracketed Erik's face, and for a long time they just stayed like that, until Erik took Charles back to the bedroom. For the rest of the morning, and well into the afternoon, they both did their able best to pretend tomorrow would never come.

Unfortunately, though, it did. And early, too.

Charles woke up expecting to feel Erik pressed against him, and when he reached out his arm and felt the fading warmth of the empty sheets where Erik had once been, he realized he was alone. The events of the previous day—their argument, then the myriad of times they'd had sex, the way Erik had read to him, how they'd reminisced about their trips across America in 1962, Erik's suggestions for the school—came back to him then, the realization that Erik was leaving felt like a knife being twisted in his gut.

He stretched out his mind, hoping, and relief washed over him when he felt Erik still in the house, downstairs in the kitchen. He wanted to send him a 'good morning' and a bidding to come back to bed, as he had so many of their previous mornings together lately, but he didn't, he knew Erik would refuse. He was lucky Erik hadn't already left.

So, instead of lying in bed, wishing his lover would stay, Charles transferred himself to the chair by the bed and set out preparing for the day, letting his mind remain firmly within Erik's, trying to memorize the feel of him for when he was gone. Outside, the sun had not yet risen, the days still short, but Charles didn't give much thought to how this was far earlier than he'd like to be awake.

A little while later, he rolled out of the elevator and toward the kitchen, where he picked up a discussion-- well, probably argument, between Erik and Hank. He'd known it was brewing earlier, but hadn't wanted to telepathically eavesdrop, as he honestly found the whole conflict between the two of them so very aggravating.

Now he heard it, though, and he couldn't really turn off his ears.

“--thought you would be happy to see me go,” Erik was saying.

“Maybe, but Charles cares-- loves you, and you're just going to leave him. Have you even thought about what that could do to him, after he's gotten so used to having you here?” Hank snapped back.

Charles didn't need to be in the kitchen to feel Erik glaring at Hank, even more than he probably already was. “He's stronger than you think he is.” A pause, then: “I'm going to need my helmet back, I don't know where you've hidden it, but I'm sure you've been studying it.”

Before Hank could reply with something threatening, Charles wheeled into the room. They both turned to look at him. _Why do you need it, Erik?_ Charles sent. _I thought you wanted me in there._

_You're not the only telepath in the world, Charles, and I wouldn't trust another one with my thoughts. And you know why else._ Though Charles could feel that was the truth, he sensed Erik's reservations about Charles' power, and its ability to stop him in the moments when they became enemies, as well as Erik's general desire not to have anyone go rooting around deeply in his mind uninvited, Charles included. Erik hadn't wanted Emma Frost in there, either, Charles had gathered.

Erik still did not trust him, and the feeling was still, sadly, mutual, more than Charles would like. He may have been 'hopelessly naive and idealistic', as Erik rather cynically put it, but he was not an idiot.  
“I will tear this place apart looking for it if I have to,” Erik said, the words clearly and mostly directed at Hank.

Charles sighed. “Hank, will you fetch Erik that awful helmet, please?” He didn't want to give it back, but it wasn't worth fighting over, or anyone getting injured over either. And he wasn't going to use his power to change Erik's mind, or alter him. Giving up the helmet was going to have to be a choice Erik made himself, unless it became necessary to force him without telepathy.

Hank only gave Charles a puzzled look before he turned and left the kitchen. Charles didn't need to look into his mind to see Hank was quite aggravated with both Erik and Charles' continued caving to his various demands and requests. Or perhaps just with the two of them and their continued attachment to each other in general. Charles was well aware that it probably wasn't healthy, and yet he hated the thought of giving up on Erik, or letting him go.

Nevertheless, Hank left the helmet in the foyer while Erik and Charles ate the old style English breakfast Erik had made. Charles was going to miss always having that, too, since no one quite made it like Erik did... well, Erik and the cooks who inhabited this house when Charles and Raven were small. In fact, he'd miss Erik's cooking in general, a thought he wasn't afraid to pass on to him.

When all that was said and done, the three of them found themselves outside the mansion's front door, Erik having donned one of his old jackets, that ridiculous outfit he'd arrived here in packed away in his bag. In hindsight, knowing what Erik would do during his time here, Charles wished he hadn't spent so much of it trying to hate him.

Thankfully, Erik did not put the helmet on, choosing to carry it under his arm instead. He and Charles stood by the door, while Hank hung back on the stairs to give them their privacy.

“I'd ask you to stay again,” Charles said, “but you're very stubborn.”

“So are you, old friend,” Erik replied, all in good humour. Charles snatched his hand and kissed it. Erik smiled sadly, linking their fingers together.

“You are going to open your school, then?” Erik looked around. “Because I know any children I send to you will be safe here.” _Provided you don't intend to brainwash them against me,_ he added, with a hint of humour to disguise what Charles could read was very a somewhat real fear.

“Yes, yes I think I am,” Charles said softly. A part of him still doubted it, was certain it would all end in failure, and with Erik leaving he felt like that possibility was doubled, but it seemed he could not escape whatever part he was meant to play in all this. And nor could he stand the thought of any mutants Erik managed to save from Trask having nowhere to go, or not doing anything to help all those mutant children he'd felt when he used Cerebro to find Raven. So, he would do his best, whatever that wound up being.

_Please, Erik,_ he shook his head, trying not to seem annoyed with the question, _of course not. I'm an academic, not an ideologue._ Though Charles wanted what was best for everyone, and frequently thought he knew what that was, he had no intention of brainwashing or indoctrinating children into thinking his way was the best way, or turning them against Erik. He'd not done that with Raven, either, which he did not regret, even when she became more headstrong.

Erik made no reply to that, perhaps because he didn't want to start an argument, not now. And indeed, Charles wondered if Erik himself wouldn't have indoctrinated any mutant children found, whether purposefully or by accident, a sentiment he did not voice.

“I should be going,” Erik said, looking back at the door; there was no light beyond the windows, the sun had still not come up.

Charles gave his hand a light tug then, bringing his fingers to his lips again. Erik, evidently, took that as further invitation and bent down to kiss him. They both took their time with it, as if to prolong the moment, the movements of their lips and tongues slow against each other. An exchange of _I love you_ flowed between them through the mental connection, the words felt rather than thought.

When he closed his eyes, the tears that had brimmed there finally slid down his cheeks, only for Erik to cradle his face and wipe them away with his thumbs as they pulled apart slowly. Erik was not crying, he hardly ever did, but the sadness radiated from him nonetheless. Charles wished once more that it would override his dedication to his cause, make him consider the possibilities of all they could accomplish.

But he knew how very unlikely that was, at least for now.

_Please be careful, my friend,_ he thought, _please don't be gone too terribly long._ He couldn't stand it if it were another ten years.

Erik fixed him with one of his small smiles, and Charles couldn't help but put a hand on his face. He leaned forward and planted another light, soft kiss on Erik's lips, this one shorter because Erik pulled back suddenly, stepping away.

Charles' hands shook for a moment as he pulled them back into his lap, but he managed somehow to regain his composure, not to cry anymore, as Erik moved toward the door, opening it, casting a column of amber light outside.

He stepped through it, and Charles couldn't help but wheel forward until he was in the doorway.

_Goodbye, Charles,_ he sent, voice louder than it would've been if he spoke aloud now. A wash of affection came with the words, and some regret that Erik tried to keep hidden.

Charles bit his lip, tilting his head, shoving his hair from his eyes. _Goodbye, Erik,_ he replied, even his mental voice was unstable. He looked away, then finally turned his chair around so he didn't have to watch Erik float away. In the end, though, he really could not stop himself, and looked back over his shoulder in time to catch Erik's gaze as his friend moved down the ramp and into the courtyard.

Erik did not hesitate then, holding the helmet firmly in one hand as he raised both his forearms before he floated up into the sky and out of sight at once. Charles remained in his head for as long as he could, taking one last look through that bright corner of memories, and at the good he still felt in his friend, before Erik disappeared beyond his range. At least he was kind enough not to put the helmet on while Charles could still feel him, not to shove Charles out of his mind like that.

When Erik was gone, Charles hung his head, shoulders trembling for a moment. He held onto those feelings Erik had, and found they were enough to keep his shields up, to keep everyone else's pain out. He didn't need to feel theirs on top of his own, even if his was less now than it had been before Erik returned.

He felt Hank behind him after a few more moments to himself.

“Are you alright?” Hank's voice was soft as he closed the door.

“Yes-- Yes, I think so. I will be,” Charles replied, somehow managing to do so without his voice shaking. He wiped his eyes, and finally met Hank's gaze.

“And you're sure about this, letting him go? He is a fugitive.”

“I am. It would be too much trouble to keep him here, and if I altered his mind, he wouldn't be Erik anymore, and I couldn't do that to him.” He honestly didn't like to do that, nor was he fond of erasing memories unless he absolutely had to. Planting simple, harmless suggestions was often where he drew the line. And with Erik, he drew the line even before that, just as he did with Raven or Hank.

“And besides that, Hank, I have hope that he'll come back someday and that he won't leave,” Charles added, looking back toward the door. He hoped that day came sooner instead of later.

When Hank made no reply, Charles looked at him again, meeting his gaze. “Now, perhaps we should try to reopen this place. I'm going to need a list of everything that needs doing.”

_Fin._


End file.
